World Cup 63 RP Thread

[Audioslavia]

Yer Tae's Oot
Extra-Time Extravanganza Tears Taeshan Asunder

If Audioslavia were the type of nation to appoint people as 'knights of the realm' for entirely spurious reasons, national team manager Israel Klimt would have been arriving to matches on horseback a long time ago.

Cynics argue that Klimt has simply carried on the work initially performed by former boss Andre-Luis Partico, who tore out the almost pulse-less heart of the side that struggled to forlornly in World Cup 62 qualifying, rebuilt the dying bull from scratch, and lead it to an unlikely victory in the AOCAF Cup final, but the fact remains that Klimt has done what no Audioslavian manager has in recent years - got the side playing solidly, efficiently, and made them very, very hard to beat.

When asked exactly what Klimt has changed, Klimt has simply pointed to the five men at the back. Centre-halves Ruy Garcia and John Ryan - both rarely used four years ago - have formed a lethal partnership, quite ridiculously palmed off as Audioslavia's 'weakness' by the Taeshani media going into last night's game. Those two, along with the prodigious goalkeeping talents of Strike FC's Kajaxo Imaslavii, have ensured that Audioslavia's goals-against tally has remained at an awesome zero for the entire tournament so far - four games, plus extra time last night, no goals conceded. It doesn't even matter that the Bulls themselves only managed a paltry one goal in the entire first round: With this defence, it was enough.

And Audioslavia's tripled that tally with a fantastic display of will, determination and fitness in extra time last night.

It has become difficult to give Audioslavia's games any real narrative in recent weeks, at least since their brave display in facing down the dangerous ursines of Bears Armed. At the heart of Audioslavia's play has been a version of anti-football, keeping players behind the ball until the opponent's tactics become apparent, before finding a way to counter effectively. Against Taeshan, even that level of narrative was rendered unavailable, with the Taeshani's point-black refusal to send more than a handful of players into the attack rendering the first half of the game almost unwatchable.

Half-time: Shots on goal: Nil. For both sides. Not even a pop from long range.

The second half began with both sides taking a few more chances. The fullbacks from either side started to make their way up the pitch during attacks, cautiously at first, but after Peter Fasnacht and Elijah Knickerbocker combined to tear a hole in the left side of Audioslavia's defence, whip a ball into the box and watch Ender Wiggin flick a header agonizingly high of the target, the purple-clad Taeshanis started to realise they could inflic some damage on the previously impregnable Audioslavian defence. Ryan Portmanteau would go close on fifty-five minutes, being fed again by a cross from that right hand side but skewing his shot too close to Imaslavii, who turned it round the post.

Five minutes later, Taeshan should have had the lead, and Portmanteau is probably still wondering how he didn't make it 1-0 there and then.

Some neat interplay on the left had let in the talismanic Gwyn Juniper who, with a drop of the shoulder and a turn of pace, beat Cezanne, took the ball into the area, held off a challenge from Garcia and, with a perfectly weighted pass, fed the ball through the legs of John Ryan and into the path of Portmanteau. The striker, just eight yards from goal, with Imaslavii struggling to close the yawning gap between himself and what had quickly become the near post, struck the ball clean and true, first time, and seemed to raise an arm in the air expectantly. Imaslavii probably didn't even see the ball, but flung himself in the general direction of the near post all the same, one arm flailing in the air, the other stretched out in front of him as far as possible. The ball shot into the goalkeeper's right hand, almost batting it out of the way on its way to goal, but the glancing blow was enough to alter the ball's trajectory, deflecting it onto the bar and back down off a bewildered Imaslavii's shoulder. The Audioslavian goaleeper turned and watched for a split second as the ball bounced back along the line, and saw Portmanteau race onto the loose ball. Just half a yard from goal, Portmanteau was possibly thinking about the headlines of the next day's newspapers as he touched the ball into the empty net, but didn't reckon on a scrambling James Courier, ripping the ball off the striker's foot with a lunging, sliding swipe, sweeping the ball back accross the line and into the arms of Imaslavii.

Portmanteau seemed too shocked to even bring his hands up to his head, something his Audioslavian rivals didn't have a problem with as the referee awarded an indirect free-kick for a pass-back. Debatable at best: It's unlikely Courier intended to give the ball directly to his goalkeeper. The resulting kick, right on the corner of the six-yard box, was tapped towards Portmanteau, who exhasperatedly sighed as his shot struck two players before being cleared.

James Courier, not making do with merely saving his side's bacon with the last-ditch tackle, went about quelling Taeshan's attacking impetus. Audioslavia seemed to change to an odd 4-4-1 formation, with Courier as a '1' not on the same plane as everyone else, tearing after the ball whenever it made its way to one of the wings, putting players under pressure, forcing mistakes, negating the dangerous flank-play the Taeshanis had built up over the second half.

James Courier is becoming a vital part of Audioslavia's midfield

Courier himself would register Audioslavia's first shot on target in the match, as late as the seventieth minute, bringing down a clearance twenty-five yards from goal, taking it out of his feet, and smashing a left-footed shot low to the goalie's left, with the Taeshani stopper having to dive at full-stretch to scoop the ball away.

The last ten minutes of normal time saw the game, finally, spring to life, with the Taeshani's making a spirited attempt to end the game before extra-time kicked in, and the natural fitness of the Audioslavians started to truly make a difference. Portmanteau would cap off a disappointing performance by skying a header six-feet over the bar from an otherwise dangerous cross, before Xavier Ptolemy was let through after a swift, first-touch passing move, only to drag a shot wide of the goal from twenty feet.

The Audioslavian fans and players were the only ones who welcomed the full-time whistle, indicating an extra half an hour of football to be played. The neutrals watching on television would probably have already switched off their televisions in boredom.

Audioslavia, apparently buoyed by some words of inspiration from Israel Klimt, tore out of the blocks in the first half of extra-time, forcing two saves from Dru Holiday before even a minute had been played, the first a long range effort from Karsten Eiger, the second an attempt finish of the rebound which Wim Van Wildernis played tamely into the arms of the recovering keeper. Taeshan had an opportunity themselves via a Wiggin shot that squirted past Imaslavii, who was relieved to see it flash past the post for a goal-kick, but Audioslavia were, without a doubt, the side in ascendancy and, just two minutes after the Taeshanis kicked off for the second half of extra time, Audioslavia finally took the lead.

James Courier won a high ball in the centre of the park, knocking a header down to Van Wildernis who immediately sprayed the ball over to the wing. Mannestraal Jansen - on as a 95th minute substitute for his brother, Zonnestraal, raced almost directly at his opposite number, feinting a right turn before beating the full back down the left and playing an awkward cross with his weaker left foot. The ball bobbled accross the area, recovering defender Jordan Jaffacake lost his balance trying to change direction and only manage to help the ball onto the feet of Karsten Eiger who side-footed a shot to the goalkeeper's right. Holiday stuck out a stiff arm, blocking it, and scrambled forward to block a secondary effort from the recovering Eiger, successfully getting in the way of the attempted poke home. Holiday, however, could do nothing about the next rebound, and could only watch as Wim Van Wildernis reached the ball ahead of two defenders and finished it into the gaping net for 1-0.

Deep into extra time, Wim Van Wildernis finally relieves the tension

The sight of the Audioslavian midfielder wheeling away towards the crowd, watched by a hundred cameras all trembling in the mild tremour caused by the celebrating Audioslavians, will surely become the defining image of the tournament for us.

The goal shook the Taeshanis to their core and, at the most vital of times, their game went to pieces. Van Wildernis was almost allowed a second after he intercepted a horrible pass out of defence from Lydie, took the ball in his stride and clipped a curling finish round the goalkeeper, the ball dropping just over the bar. The damage would finally be done with six minutes to go in the game. Van Wildernis was there again, playing a one-two with Courier before playing a slide-rule pass to Karsten Eiger. Eiger's control let him down, losing sight of it as the goalkeeper closed him down but, in a moment that may well be remembered just as fondly as the first goal, recovering defender Jordan Jaffacake slid in to disposess the Audioslavian striker, did so, but only succeeded in sweeping the ball past his own goalkeeper and into the gaping net.

Not the first time a man with the name Jaffacake had scored and own goal to give Audioslavia an advantage in a World Cup match.

The final whistle was greeted with the kind of noise usually reserved for cup-final wins. In truth, this may have been Audioslavia's cup final, what with who the side have to face in the next round.

Third Time's the Charm

Audioslavia have lost to Polar Islandstates at home and away, this cycle. Can they overcome the Terns on neutral ground?

This reporter made his prediction, a while ago, that the World Cup trophy would be flying north to Polar Islandstates when all is said and done. The Polarians, by far the best Rushmori side left in the competition, haven't exactly set the world alight so far, and needed extra-time to get past Osarius in the second-round, but even in the toughest half of the draw, the men from the north should have enough to get themselves into the final, in which only Valanora would be considered favourites to score the victory over them.

Aside from having won the double header in World Cup 63 qualifying, and having a 3-1-0 record against the Bulls, Polar Islandstates have to be considered favourites for a number of reasons. First and foremost, Audioslavia have already accomplished everything that could have possibly dreamt of, so far. Only two years ago, when the opening qualifiers were still on the horizon, Israel Klimt remarked upon the side's amassing of wins, and points, as being vital to achieving a good seeding for the WC64 qualifiers, in which a slightly older and wiser Bulls team would challenge for the first time. The idea of qualifying, outright, ahead of the Polarians, Liventians, Akbarabadi and the like, wasn't quite unthinkable, but the bar had been lowered so much by Txo Morea that just making a good account of ourselves would have been sufficient for Klimt to end the qualifiers feeling like a success.

After qualification became a 'thing', the simply accumulation of a few points here and there was, again, deemed 'enough' for Klimt, if not by Klimt himself. Nobody expected Audioslavia to reach the second round, or even to get more than a couple of points. After the opening-day win over #2 ranked Bears Armed, the bar barely moved at all, and even the most fervent follower of the national side was surprised when the men in claret and green held Milchama and Mytannion to secure a spot in the second round.

From here, we began to get greedy. To beat Taeshan, to reach the quarter-final, suddenly meant a lot. Firstly, three more ranking points in the bag would be a welcome addition in the run up to the AOCAF and the next tournament. Secondly, and this was a big one, a win in the second round would give Audioslavia one more 'SRS' point which, although not important to some, would still catapult Audioslavia up and over a certain nation named Total n Utter Insanity and, well, nobody who knows their football history will question our motivation to accomplish that little feat, or 'set the world to normal again' as someone said.

Some Audioslavians may also be thinking, secretly, deep down... Do we even want to go any further?

Although few 'slavians would consider themselves statistics buffs - we leave that to the Osari and Polarians - our near-perfect record in semi-finals would be seriously put to the test against either #3 ranked Babbage Islands or The Archregimancy, and from there...

Are we even ready for another final? Could our hearts take it?

Polar Islandstates, on the other hand, will see this as a golden opportunity gone begging if they don't reach that coveted final, what with so many of the world's top footballing nations already out of the competition, and with the prospect of sending retiring, world reknowned coach Jorgen Hauge off into the sunset with a medal around his neck, having left a golden star above the Polarians's crest, the game has to be considered theirs to lose.

With the way this tournament has progressed so far, however, and taking into account the Audioslavians' perfect defensive record, form, and the determination they've shown in getting this far: Would anyone in their right mind write off the Bulls?

IBJJ, G'NB

[United Gordonopia]

The whole world was shocked,
As the Holy Empire from its throne was knocked.

---

No one else knew. Not his teammates. Not his managers. Not his agent. Not even his mother. Only Norm. Norm, and O'Connor.

---

Somehow, Gordonopia had broken the banks of the oddsmakers and stayed in the tournament. To Norm Bates, this had meant two things: the honor he brought his country with his last hurrah soared, and the time for him to organize his next step grew. Two days after the spectacularly narrow victory over The Holy Empire, after the chaotic celebrations by fans in Tuori and at home had somewhat diminished, he managed to take the first step in his plan.

As a member of the National Team, Norm was provided a couple complimentary tickets to every game by the Gordonopia Football Association. Coming from a broken neighborhood, he had only his mother to count among his relatives. The other had gone to the most influential man in his life since the death of his father: Richard O'Connor. His former teacher, first coach, and eventual commanding officer had had such a profound affect on his life that calling him simply a mentor did not do the man justice. He was also the key to organizing the next phase of Norm's life.

"So you want to take up the grey?" O'Connor asked thoughtfully.

"It wouldn't be for the first time. You know that better than anyone," replied Norm.

O'Connor, typical for his cerebral nature, stroked his chin as he contemplated what Norm was telling him. "You are absolutely positive about this? You want to give up all the endorsements, the charity balls, the commentating? All of it? You don't even want a PR commission?"

"That's what I've been doing for the past eight years."

"Your point?"

"For God's sake, that's what I've been doing since you bribed me to join the football team by giving me the chance to retake that damn history test," Norm sardonically added. As O'Connor chuckled, Norm continued, "Besides, I wouldn't be coming to you if that was what I wanted. The war was the only time I've done something different. I've thought about this a lot."

"You know what I do is not the same as in the war, Norm. I'd have to kill you if I gave you the specifics," he grinned, "But I'm not regular Army. You know that."

"That's my point, Dick. In the regular Army, the spotlight won't end. Just think of the headlines they'd pull. No, I want to do this quietly. I want to live quietly, but I want to serve Gordonopia."

"In all likelihood, you'll be in combat. Probably the Northern Mountains."

"Would I be volunteering for this if I couldn't accept that?"

O'Connor simply smiled and nodded. He picked up the almost-empty mug that had been sitting on the hard wooden table of the booth for far too long, and took a deep swig. The head left a light mustache on his upper lip.

"Well, Norm, I'll see what strings I can pull. Good luck against the Farfs, by the way. About time we played them in real life."

Norm rose with O'Connor, and as the latter left, they exchanged a big bear-hug. As he sat back down, Norm watched in silence as his old friend left the pub. The plan was in motion.

[The Bavaria States]

And then nukes dropped on the sport fields!

*** Warned for spam ***

It's not SPAM, it's a other kind of roleplaying. Agree, nuke's make live more fun.

[The Archregimancy]

It's not SPAM, it's a other kind of roleplaying. Agree, nuke's make live more fun.

*** Warned for spam again. ***

Do that a third time, and you can have a nice, relaxing 1 day forum ban to familiarise yourself with the site rules and forum culture.

[Farfadillis]

And the match started, facing those of his age, he was willing to demonstrate what he was made of. He doubted the manager was actually paying attention to what he did, so double endeavors it had to be. No going back, no worrying about family, nothing except concentration, sheer concentration. Among his teammates, the one who seemed to be the best, and to get the ball the most, was the guy that had talked to him. He remembered someone mentioning his name, was it Ichi? Didn't really matter.

The match didn't start too well for poor Yurpá, some of his teammates started passing him the ball, mostly in an act of mercy and curiosity, and he only ended up losing the ball, one time after the other. Truth was, he was never the kind of guy who would dribble perfectly or get a game-winning through pass. Soon, his teammates stopped passing him the ball, and this would soon backfire for the entire team, but would as well let Mêndêlöíndçêl shine. Whether they liked it or not, he was their only centre midfielder, and the flow of their game went down the toilet (even more), once he stopped getting the ball. The players in the flanks apparently weren't that good, and the opposite team started getting through, and for his luck, through the centre.

Soon, he started recovering the ball and helping out the team a bit more. He could start showing what he was worth, and started passing the ball slightly better. It was the perfect chance to get in.

* * * * * *

The game against Kiryu-shi started. First knock-out round appearance... and he wasn't even nervous! He knew what they had against and he knew what they could afford to do. He also knew that United Gordonopia had gone to extra time against the Holy Empire, and there was that minuscule chance that they could somehow get to the semifinals, instead of getting to the quarterfinals and being defeated humiliatingly by a team with a much better attacking style than the desperate Farf one. Still, it was now Kiryu-shi the team they had to concentrate on defeating.

The Kiryu-shi players, known through-out the world for their top-tier defense and their completely infertile and impotent offense, defended perfectly, and while Farfadillis - not really known through-out the world until now for their good attack, desperate search for goals and terrible, in every sense, defense - held most of the possession, they just couldn't really get any clear chance. Meanwhile, the Kiri found constant threatening counterattacks in the form of quick versions of them down the flanks whenever Setentriona or Frêndê left the defense unattended. Chinsúa still couldn't perform well, and Lisdiren had to play the role of hero once again, stopping four clear chances in the first twenty minutes. Things didn't look good, at all.

* * * * * *

Things started to look bad slowly, the opposite team started to get fast attacks, and he had to double his efforts to get the team out of the hole they were getting into, he started to shine. While his passing and dribbling didn't really contribute, getting the ball out of the box, with a quick pass to someone who was slightly better positioned than him. The team was still slightly inferior, the kid who had apparently turned out to be the best, or at least the most respected, was barely helping out, and just wanted to get him out, apparently. It was then that the opposite team scored.

The right winger went down the flank, dribbled a defender and crossed the ball. The defense was poorly organized, and the cross was heading directly for the striker's head, things didn't look good during the second the ball was in the air. The defender couldn't jump too high and the tall striker headed in, scoring a goal and making the entire team look bad. It had been a rather dumb goal, they shouldn't have let it in, but they had. Now Yurpá was in for some problems...

* * * * * *

And no Kiryu-shi had finally got it. A counterattack down the right flank and a cross that beat Chinsúa, after at least fifteen minutes of Farf impotence to get past the Kiryu-shi defense. d'Arányi, one of the two girl strikers Kiryu-shi uses, headed the ball in with some ease, while Lisdiren just watched it go by somewhat perplexed. The defense had failed, it wasn't the first time, Chinsúa had failed, he could've jumped higher, he could've headed the ball towards a different direction, at least one that wasn't "right in the opposition's striker's head". But now, with twenty minutes of the first half to go, they just had to at least equalize and go to extra time, where he and Dandalleion were good at making the difference.

And maybe that goal was a click. The Farf attack started creating dangerous chances after that goal, Dandalleion and Mêrí, who was playing as a centre forward, were managing to get past the Kiryu-shi defense now, and were getting some shots, the goalkeeper even had to stop one. The first half would finish with both teams worried, one because it could lose the game, and the other... too.

Now with the start of the second half, the Farves looked slightly better. Tuzzio and O'rosso were worrying the Kiri with long-range efforts while they also had to care about Dandalleion not getting through thanks to a through pass, which either could execute with ease. La Verdheroja looked like it could equalize in any moment, but the moment seemed to be delayed. Kiryu-shi stopped attacking, it's not like they really needed it. They were winning, and they weren't famous through-out the world for their attacking, exactly. But their defending was very good, they were all wondering how Valanora had managed to score twice, or Gyatso-kai once. But wondering wouldn't get them past the defense.

Though Kiryu-shi did have one very clear chance, in a counterattack when even Chinsúa joined the attack in a desperate attempt for a goal, they were all desperate, with only ten minutes left. The goalkeeper got the ball after a creeping shot by Tenian, who screwed up big time, and sent a long pass to d'Arányi, who wasn't off-side purely because she wasn't in the Farves' side of the field. She then faced Lisdiren one-on-one. Things just couldn't end up well. She then dribbled him and was left in a somewhat awkward position. She then unwisely shot towards the goal as she could, and the shot was creeping and rather slow. Lisdiren quickly got up and started running. Maybe it was the adrenaline, but he was running very, very quickly. He got to the ball when it was about to get to the line, he couldn't try to stop it safely,with his hands, so he shot towards his left, as he could, hoping for the best. And the best happened, the ball went like a missile straight to the post and went out for a throw-in, crossing the entire field. It was a sigh of relief to probably every Farf in the world, but truth is they were still losing, and they had to do something quickly...

* * * * * *

He had done well so far, but they were still losing. They were about to take a corner, he and that guy Ichi were outside the box. Yurpá as a centre midfielder was perfectly alright there, but the other guy wasn't. With a dead serious face, he looked at him and said:

- Do you plan to actually do something? - he said, with a bit of irony
- Why don't you do something, Rulandese boy? - Tuzzio replied, trying to hurt Yurpá with words.

But Mêndêlöíndçêl just smiled. He saw the cross go all the way to the mess that had been created inside the box. From outside the box he had started a run towards the cross and could manage to jump a lot higher than anyone else. The header ended up being a missile to the lower-left post, while the goalkeeper just watched it go by. It was impossible to stop. Everyone looked at the guy with surprise. It had been a very good goal, and he had shown that he could be a force to be reckoned inside the box. A little after that, the referee of the training match, who was also the manager, stopped the game, with the result being 1-1.

He approached him, the little kid that had the hopes of entering the team.

- You've got the potential. I can see it. I can feel it.

Yurpá replied with good, old and simple silence.

- So, to make it as clear as possible, I'd like to sign you.

* * * * * *

They were desperate. They had to score. They couldn't let down an entire nation of 1 billion people. Tuzzio, in an act of extreme desperation, tried to shoot from outside the box without good positioning. However, the goalkeeper had some problems in handling the somewhat weak shot and sent it out instead, to his right side. It was now a corner kick. O'rosso was preparing to take it when...

- Do you plan to actually do something? - Mêndêlöíndçêl said, trying to see if Tuzzio remembered what had happened a decade ago.
- Why don't you do something, Rulandese boy? - Tuzzio replied, with a smile.

They were two polar opposites, they never talked to each other, they were mostly rivals, there was something weird in how they got on with each other. But there were simply links that attached them, for that moment, they were best friends, if only for a few seconds while O'rosso was about to cross.

When the cross came, the cross was way too powerful and went all the way across the box, Mêndêlöíndçêl hadn't predicted that, so he was just one more in the mess. Luckily, Tenian got the ball before the ball could get out. Mêndêlöíndçêl managed to free from the defenders and Tenian passed him the ball. Mêndêlöíndçêl stopped it and tried to think as quickly as he could. Indeed, it was impossible to score directly. Or was it? He then, out of desperation, just shot strongly. The shot went between Mêrí and Feingold, Kiryu-shi player that was to retire after the World Cup, and went straight to the goalkeeper's upper-right corner. The goal was an injection of adrenaline to everyone, especially to Mêndêlöíndçêl. He was like in shock, he hadn't realized the ball had actually gone in until Tuzzio, Dandalleion and Mêrí started to celebrate with him. It was happiness that was flowing through-out his body, his spirit, his soul. He remembered everything, he wondered about his family once again, he had to reunite with them someday. 9 years had already passed. But he had to concentrate on the game, the referee had already blown his whistle just after the goal, meaning Farfadillis and Kiryu-shi had to go through extra time to determine a winner, but La Verdheroja would most likely have the upper-hand because of the morale-injection they got, while the Kiri would most likely have taken that as a huge hit to their morale.

After a quick rest, with a few changes in the scheme and Sereno going in for Wanderis, while Nessi went in for Chinsúa. They were prepared. Kiryu-shi was as well. Their defense would probably not let another one go in, they were extremely lucky to have scored that goal, to start with, how would they win? The answer would reveal itself rather quickly, in the tenth minute of extra time.

Kiryu-shi had attempted a counterattack, maybe they didn't like the idea of extra time. But that backfired. Tuzzio then got the ball after a failed counterattack, in a countercounterattack, and saw Dandalleion rushing to the box. There were still four defenders, one went to mark Tuzzio, and the other three tried to prevent Dandalleion from scoring. Tuzzio then sent an aerial through pass to Dandalleion, who run between two Kiryu-shi defenders and chested the ball, but was left with a full-back behind him. He didn't chest it well, and the ball fell to his left side, it then bounced and he had a moment of magic. He attempted a scissor kick which, while somewhat weak and easy to stop, surprised the Kiri's goalkeeper, and went in. It was a second goal, a miracle, you could say. Kiryu-shi maybe took it as the final hit, because the previous goal had already left them dizzy, figuratively. Kiryu-shi then adopted a facet that had never been seen before, an attacking one. They started attacking like there was no tomorrow. Farfadillis now knew how to win the match, they defended a bit and waited patiently, the first half of extra time finished and the second one quickly began, but Kiyu-shi just couldn't continue with their fight, they were a bi unexperienced trying all-out attack, and Farfadillis punished them once again because of that. They left their defense too unattended, and Dandalleion took advantage of this after a long pass by Frêndê, which left him one-on-one with the goalkeeper. He then dribbled him with speed, and shot with the entire goal to shoot towards. He then chipped the ball for an added effect of class and continued to celebrate. There were only three minutes to go, and they were already going to face United Gordnopia, who had eliminated the Holy Empire by half time. Kiryu-shi would just not be able to retaliate. They were going to the quarterfinals, attempting to fulfill their dreams...

[The Archregimancy]

THE MONASTIC TIMES

MIRACLE OF WORLD CUP 63 CONTINUES
Archregimancy Reaches Quarterfinals

By Fr. Nicholas the Scribe

The Monastic Football Association and Holy Synod the Autonomous Synod of the Archregimancy continued to court controversy last night by their ongoing celebration of the Holy Monastic Republic's surprising surge into the World Cup quarterfinals.

"We've made it further than the Holy Empire has, haven't we?" said a senior archimandrite, speaking on condition of anonymity, and trying very hard not to look far more smug than a monk probably should.

The MFA held a Thanksgiving Moleban at the Holy Monastery of Vatopedi after the 3-1 victory over Valladares, in which new cult (but not that sort of cult) figures Fr. Hilarion the Naked and Fr. Mark the Goatskin wearer scored the goals, with Fr. Mark scoring twice - at least one of which was apparently, to the stunned amazement of the gathered crowd, intentional.


Thanksgiving Moleban at Vatopedi

The Holy Monastic Republic now plays the Babbage Islands in the quarterfinals.

"I know we have serious theological differences with the majority of the population of the Babbage Islands" said a second senior archimandrite, also speaking on condition of anonymity "but we're just looking forward to a good, clean game of football". Asked if the MFA held out any hope that the Archregimancy could defeat the highly ranked Bumblebees, the archimandrite simply stated "The Lord works in mysterious ways; monks don't gamble, but if they did, do you think I would have placed any money on a Farfadillis - United Gordonopia quarterfinal? Probably not".

Should the Archregimancy stun the assembled heathens in Aguazul by reaching their third World Cup semifinal, it is believed that the MFA will arrange for the entire team to be sent to an obscure and isolated cave system where they can pray in thanks without any external interference for as long as they wish to.

[Polar Islandstates]

With the players assembled in the dressing room at San Pablo, Aguzaul ahead of another World Cup quarter final, it was only natural that thoughts should turn to multiversal domination. The big teams were falling by the wayside, fast, and only Audioslavia stood between Schwartz’s boys and a third top-four finish for the Terns.

Jorgen Hauge was naturally the leader in the discussions, reminding players that the Audioslavian side were just as capable of reaching the last four as the Terns were, past results in the history books said as much, and that nobody should be underestimated. Four times the Terns had played Audioslavia, and they’d never been defeated, no, but Hauge continued by underlining without any shred of doubt just how hard the players would have to work out there on the pitch to get past Klimpt and his well-organised side.

Alexsandr van Sorensen agreed, adding that he had been studying the tapes, looking for how best to work around their impressive and well drilled defence, so that any penetrating runs made by Elmsvikur and Kvitchenko could be exploited with a goal.

Torre Urfstadt, who had scored against the Bulls in qualifying for World Cup 60, pointed out that the Bulls were a rapidly climbing force in multiversal football once again, and that after the Terns had achieved the double over them in this latest qualifying campaign, their opposition out there would be waiting for their chance to take revenge. Even nations who choose to have a flag boasting bull testicles as amongst its livery, he concluded, could sometimes become an ultra-serious threat to the Terns’ progression.

Iulian Finnibaturinn was focused however, and pointed out that this was their best chance of reaching the semi-finals in many cycles, and that they needed to make good use of it, or risk letting a generation of professional footballers slip away into retirement without the gold medal around their necks. Jorgen Hauge in particular, noted Iulian, deserved to be a part of the team that put a gold star above the famous Terns badge.

“Indeed he does,” said Skye through gritted teeth, still not-so-secretly seething that he never lifted the World Cup trophy himself and appearing from around the corner, “now, who wants to hear the rest of the story?”

Blank faces.

“Well, tough. Because you don’t have a choice.” sulked Skye, settling down on a pile of spare kit.

The players were intrigued despite themselves, and soon they were gathered around to hear the tale.

“So,” prompted Olivier Kindahl, “what happened?”

“Loki arrived,” began Skye,” and told me he could sort me out with some people capable of granting me the immortality I so greatly desired. Not Búa, as the great Wightling, lord… thingy… was away on a holiday of some sort, but to what I was reliably informed was a sort of council of advisors that held his ear, and had access to his great and other-worldly power. With a click of his fingers, Loki snapped me from the Dreamed Realm and I materialised in a street somewhere in Spit. Feeling sick from the nausea caused by sudden inter-dimensional travel, I took some time to compose myself, before realising that Loki had given me a set of instructions…

“‘Go into the basement. Ask for Roger Morse. He’ll sort you out. Loki.’”
“That was all it said. Slightly confused, I nonetheless decided to trust the guy, and walked down the stairwell in front of me into the large and expansive maze of dank concrete corridors and ducts that passed for a basement in that stupid city. The building was ridiculous. There was all sorts of weird stuff down there. I passed a woman stroking a cat with the face of Soter Sarlange. She didn’t know who Roger Morse was. Nor did the five piece band I encountered on my routes around the musty corridors. I must have walked those walls more than a dozen times, each time returning to the stairwell without having seen anybody called Roger Morse whatsoever. Twice I ended up where I started without seeing anybody at all, which was in some ways more comforting than the times I bumped into the Sarlange-cat-lady. I was thoroughly lost by the end of it, unable to even find my way back to the stairwell anymore.

“It was a kind of architectural purgatory. I don’t know who designed it, but whoever it was couldn’t draw a line without using a ruler and was either blissful ignorant and incompetent or wilfully sadistic. I tell you what, if all of Wight is designed like that building, then the Wightlings have a problem on their hands.

“Eventually, just as I was about to sit down and sob, I stumbled across a large inner hall I hadn’t seen before. A rag-tag boy in rags and tags sat at a desk in the middle of the floor. I advanced towards him and asked for Roger Morse. The boy nodded, and clapped his hands. Several more boys appeared from out of doorways concealed in the walls, surrounding me as they did so. They all walked with a sort of stumble. Like they all had suffered from a stunted growth in their time. In any case, they had an unsettling appearance, and I was more than a little creeped out.

“Amongst them, they held aloft a large, gnarled branch, worn smooth by presumably decades of handling by calloused palms and now being treated with an obvious reverence by the boys. The one I assumed to be their leader – the only one of them in a tatty top hat – spoke up.

“He said, ‘before we do business, I must applaud you Polarians on your misnomers.’

“Well, I was confused, so naturally I asked him to explain.

“‘First of all,’ he said, ‘you are called Skye and yet you are clearly made of earth and fire. Secondly, the one who told us you required our services is called Low-Key, when his actions are anything but!’

“The little guy seemed so genuinely pleased by this that I didn’t have the heart to correct him, but instead I asked him what kind of business it was that we were meant to be doing. In return, the boy told me that he was Roger Morse, and that whilst solving crimes in Oxford, he had come across an old stick that granted immortality to those that possessed it. He then offered to sell it to me, claiming that I was getting a good deal at several hundred thousand $ol.

“I protested at first, of course, but then I thought about what it would mean to live forever. Not to want to do it out of fear of death or terrible fixation with the afterlife, but instead just because the limits to what an immortal person can achieve really and truly are limitless, and I wanted to be the very best. That no-one ever was.

“So, several hundred thousand $ol. I considered it a fair price to live forever, and I wrote Roger Morse the cheque there and there. With care, the boys began to pass the stick along their lines until it reached me and I could hold it in my hands for the first time.

“Immortality. It was mine. This weather, beaten, battered and twisted old walking stick was to be my saviour. I had bought it, and now it was mine. I owned it. I owned my immortality. I was going to live forever. I could feel the power in my hands from the very second the smooth wood touched my palms. It tingled and seared through me like white heat.

“I offered the boys the chance to watch me test it out for the time, but they declined. Roger Morse in particular said something about raking a moon or seeing a man about a golden gun or something, and then they were off. I wasted no time however, and I immediately ran up the stairs that now appeared before me and headed for the very top floor. Storey after storey whizzed past as I ran faster than I ever have done since retiring from football.

“So, there I was. Stood on the roof, looking out at a panorama of Spit, lying beneath me as I stood on the parapet of the ridiculous concrete heap. The rest of Spit wasn’t much better, and I remember thinking specifically how glad I was that thanks to the immortality stick, this view of Spit wouldn’t be my last ever.

“Clutching the stick tightly, I closed my eyes, and threw myself off…” said Skye, trailing off dramatically from his monologue and looking around at the players with expectation in his eyes, before continuing with a pout rather sulkily after seeing a room of confused rather than thrilled faces. “You’re not shocked and eagerly drinking up the suspense.”

“Dude, you’re here right now,” said David Wien, “we’re well aware you didn’t die.”

“I… Hm. Good point.” conceded Skye.

“I just can’t believe you were that stupid…” mused Jorgen-Franz Bru.

“I can.” added Alexsandr van Sorensen.

“Oh shut up, all of you.” pouted Skye.

“Come on then, Skye,” said Hauge, sternly, “let’s get this over with, yes? We’ve got a match to be getting on with. So how did you get from there to here?”

“Well, that’s far too long a story to squeeze into just now,” said Skye, reverting back to thrilling two-parters in order to provoke shock and anticipation like a prime-time pathology television show, “but if you’re really good and beat the Audioslavians I’m sure I could find you a little something in my memory banks to tell you about.”

The players sighed.

“But, I’ll tell you this much now,” said Skye hastily, aware that he was losing his captive audience, an impressively poor achievement even by his standards, “as I plummeted towards the muddy streets of Spit, Loki appeared in a puff of sky that was most definitely not Low-Key, and ‘saved’ me somehow by catching me without using his arms, just his godly whims.

“Turns out that the boys in the basement had been concluding the last part of an elaborate scam that involved convincing a multi-millionaire that they were going to die soon, then offer them a stick that could grant them immortality. Upon receiving the stick, it quickly became apparent that it was nothing more than a sanded willow branch. So, when I rocked up without even being convinced I was going to die soon, they couldn’t believe their luck.
“I never did work out whether Loki sent me to them as some kind of practical joke that the other Gods talked him into, or whether he was just as ignorant of the scheme. Neither of which inspires confidence in the Valhallan Pantheon, to be honest, but moving on, Loki explained to me as he set me back down safely on the streets of Spit, that if I really wanted to still be immortal, then I would have to work for it. Only the Gods are immortal, and that is because they have something to do with their immortality.

“In short, if I wanted it that badly, Loki could find me a job… But, that’s all for now. You go out and beat Audioslavia, and I’ll tell you the final part tomorrow. Or the day after. Or, yeah, maybe ever the day after that. Take us to the semi-finals, and I’ll tell you about what happened between me and Loki.”

“Hey,” piped up a distinctly queasy and nervous looking Alexander Hesjedal as the starting eleven headed down the tunnel, “speaking of the loo key......”

[The Babbage Islands]

"Don't look past the monks."

"Excuse me?"

"I said, don't look past the monks."

"And that means what?"

"It means that everyone and their dog is looking at Audioslavia-Polar Islandstates for our next opponent. Or they're all over Valanora v Starblaydia playing for the seventy-hundredth time. Or it's about Maria Carrizales and Kaitlyn Miller, who's gonna start and why did Miller sit against Milchama when she's been solid. Or it's mourning Ava Gillespie already, she's not dead yet."

"She didn't play all that great against Milchama, Gillespie didn't."

"Lemme finish, will ya? Everyone's talking everything but what matters most. That's a quick road to being really disappointed."

"So you think the monks have a chance?"

"If we play like they don't have a chance, maybe that's the Archregimawhatsit's best chance. The team has to focus, so do the fans."

[Valanora]

What is one half of a prophecy predicted that comes to light? Is it a half truth, a half vision then? If the answer to that question is yes, then we must have a paradox, as no truth can ever be half of itself, it either is the truth or it is not. So what then do we make of the predictions that were only half right but were right in all the ways that mattered the most to those that cared for them? Is there even a concept within our knowledge and existence to express these ideas that only come through partially right from the mind's eye?

I speak of course of mine and my team's path through the World Cup and towards what I believe to be another successful run to a title. It's a premature claim to be sure, with two games to win before we even get to that game and that is never an easy game to play when you do get there. Still, it is this feeling within my heart that our squad is destined to be victorious in this cup. I see the signs that are laid bare before me and I can only come to this conclusion, the Marauders are meant to win the World Cup once more.

The signs are numerous in my eyes, too numerous to pass over so slightly. The biggest of them was the trial of fire and determination that was the sides journey through the perilous qualification phase. While it seemed an agonizing and cruel test of patience, skill, and will, it prepared us for the Finals in a way that we have not been tested in quite some time. While there have been other qualification attempts that brought out a sting of patience and a touch of pessimism, none of them have truly threatened our elimination like this cycles had. It strengthened us not only through skill but also the resolve to see a task out regardless of the obstacles before us.

And these obstacles, they to are another sign of this squad's destiny, as we face none other but our ancient rival from the time of our dominance. How great the battles between the Marauding Navy and the Perilous Purple machine have been through the years. There was the seven to one victory that is the worst defeat the Starblaydi ever suffered to the times when it was only Starblaydia that kept our side from having a choke hold over the World Cup as the Marauders own personal play thing. What could have been a five straight championship run was stopped only by those Starblaydi and it all culminated in World Cup 47 when we met in the Final itself and they edged us out for the record trophy.

But now that record is shared and the Starblaydi star is not in the ascent, it has waned from its glory days. Although it seems to be rekindling its light, having found their way into the quarterfinal stage regardless of their own astronomical odds against it. It is in my eyes just another touch light on the path to the ultimate glory for my side, which seems all the more possible now that the Holy Empire has fallen, to the most unlikely of opposition. These are indeed strange times when a debutant to the Finals fells what is currently the greatest footballing entity known to all sentient kind. Strange days with obstacles falling left and right, leaving only the Marauders and Babbage Islands as first seeds still alive in the tournament.

And for that, I will have to double my resolve as we prepare to face our great rival once more for passage to the semifinals. For it is one thing to speak of destiny and signs and it is another to go out and prove them true. If the Empire can be felled, then so can Valanora and to a much more dangerous foe indeed. It is a slight arrogance to think that the Cup is ours to have, I admit as much, but it is the confidence that I hold not only in myself but in this team to overcome anything. I am not higher than any of them regardless of accolades earned or recognition given, we operate as a team unit. That is the ultimate key to our success, to put away the ego and the arrogance and leave it all out on the pitch as one single entity, a team not looking to complete a destiny foretold, but to craft its own.

~ Laborious Hawk

[Audioslavia]

"Good luck boys" said the man in the fedora and mac, watching eleven nervous looking men in the colours of Audioslavia depart the dressing room and make their way through the tunnel, up the steps, and out of view. He hadn't seen the other dressing room door open, yet, but figured the delay in the Polarians' appearance would be down to the usual person.

The fabled 'storyteller'.

The Audioslavian media - which amounted to just one person, according to the Polar-affiliated Ossidiacquans - had jumped on Polar Islandstates' use of a 'storyteller' to gee up their team before or during international fixtures, right from when they'd gotten wind it. "A Story before Bedtime" had been the Cathair Herald's headline that day, above a picture of a man in Polar Islandstates teamwear, adorned in an elaborate mask.

The same masked man emerged from the opposite dressing room now, shoulders straight, chest out, as if he was readying himself for a military inspection, or maybe simply because he was trying to look important, ominous and prophet-like all in one go. One by one, the blue-shirted Polarian team exited the dressing room, jogging on the spot, bouncing, swinging their arms, all to occasional shouts of 'COME ON BOYS' in guttural nordic accents. They were about five inches per man taller than the Audioslavians, and were intent on accentuating this fact as they went to line up against their opponents.

The bemasked man watched on, trying to feign solemnity, before the last Polarian disappeared up the stairs and out of view. The man slipped his mask off and ran a hand through his bountiful hair, shaking it as if he was underneath a waterfall in a shampoo advert, before looking over at the man in the fedora.

"Been telling the boys a bed-time story, Timo?" asked fedora-and-mackintosh. The imposingly tall frame of Timo Skye, storyteller, footballer, prophet, sex fiend, probably with all of the above on his business card, most likely above an incorrect spelling of 'Entrepreneur', sneered, and made his way over to the man, but not before glancing at a mirror.

"Jeremy Jaffacake, not the sort of place I'd expect to find you"
"Funny" said Jeremy, looking around at the crumbling interior of the ancient stadium, running a finger along a dirty crack in the grey concrete wall. "this is exactly the sort of place I'd expect to find you"
"I meant the event. Latter stages of a World Cup. I had to check my watch when I found out our boys were coming up against 'Audioslavia'" - a wrinkle of the nose at the word, as if remembering an unpleasant elevator-fart - "Just to make sure I was in the right century"
"With hair like that, I'd say you were definitely in the wrong century. Shoulder-length GHD-tortured mullets went out of fashion in the 1800s"
"Wouldn't know" replied Timo, "*I* wasn't there."
"Not that you'd recognise fashion even a second away, let alone three centuries" said Jeremy, "not if your idea of class is 'stick a seagull on it"
"I know about fashion. The first rule is, if I remember correctly, 'red and green must never be seen'"
"A concept your full-backs are about to become all to familiar with" said Jeremy, taking a pack of cigarettes out of his pocket, followed by a lighter.
"How *are* you still alive, anyway?" asked Timo Skye, folding his arms.
"Oh if I had a penny for every time I heard that question, Timo, I could buy you a haircut"
"Can't buy yourself a new coat though, apparently"
"Too-shay" said Jeremy. "So, what was today's story about, then? Was it the story of Polarian presidency of the World Cup Comittee? How they came into the position? And how they're going to govern using all their political know-how? A story which probably goes something along the lines of:

"How did you do that?"
"What?"
"Conjure that image in the air using only an implied colon?"
"The only colon I'll be implying tonight, Timo, is your mum's"
"What?"
"Work it out"
"I have. I think you've just ended an ambiguous sentence with 'your mum' in the hope that I'll assume you've been clever, and that I haven't understood the joke, when in fact you're about as witty as a five year-old who hasn't figured out how jokes work yet."
"If that's what you want to believe..."
"Doesn't matter if I believe it or not, Jeremy, it's true"
"Well... yeah" said Jeremy, annoyed. "So what story *were* you telling your doomed snowmen about, then?"
"Oh Jeremy, the subject doesn't matter, it's the lesson, the theme. You could live five lifetimes and not understand the intricacies of it. Probably already have."
"Well, I'm not one for stories. Narrative, yes, but not stories. More of a riddler, me, anyway"
"I can't imagine you in a green bodysuit, somehow."
"Yes you can. Try."
"Ugh"
"There you go"
"What 'riddles', anyway?"
"Well, a short story, with a question on the end, one that requires lateral thinking. Possibly a bit much for someone who's barely managed sentient thought"
"Try me. Go on. Give me a riddle" said Timo, folding his arms, standing his ground in front of Jeremy. The man, like most Polarians, had about six inches on Jeremy, though the Audioslavian wasn't about to let himself be imposed upon.
"Well, try this one on for size:

You are in a room. The room has four walls. In each wall there is a window. Each window faces south. You look through one window and see a bear. Now, Timo, answer me this... what sexuality is the bear?"

"White!" said Timo, triumphantly, before frowning, "what?"
"Gay" said Jeremy, "It's a Polarian bear".
Timo rolled his eyes.
"A cheap trick. Typical Audioslavian. You know, back when I played football, back in the times when footballers were footballers, men were men, and women were throwing themselves at tall, sexy, broad-shouldered Polarian strikers, we had a saying: OH GOD THAT'S A BEAR"
"What kind of a saying is OH GOD IT'S A BEAR"

---

Rubio Sanchez looked down on the tunnel from his vantage point of the press centre at the Estadio Conabora, before looking at his watch.
"Referees are coming out onto the pitch, players just behind, Jeremy should be here by now"
"Jeremy Jaffacake is late" said Sue Dysos, blankly, "hardly reason to prophesise the end-times... wait.. that's him isn't it?"
"Where?" asked Rubio, looking around to the door behind him.
"Coming out of the tunnel.. onto the pitch... running.... is that.... is that Timo Skye"
"Oh god what are they that's a bear"
"That's a bear"
"That's a bear!" came a voice from behind them.

Soon, fifty-thousand people were chorusing the same line. Sue Dysos, in the mean-time, had time to turn round, shield her eyes from the glare of the floodlights and pick out an Aguazulenya sharp-shooter, high in the rafters of the stadium, fiddling with a gun that, even from this distance away, looked bigger than any other she'd seen before. The sniper seemed to sigh and utter the words 'not this again', before squeezing the trigger.

Sue turned and, dejectedly, noted that the sniper had utterly failed to his Jaffacake squarely in the arse.

"Well... a novel way to start a football match" she said, as a bedraggled looking Jeremy half-vaulted, half-fell over the barrier between the pitch and the crowd, looking up to see Rubio waving his arms, beckoning the Audioslavian to his press-box seat.

[Aguazul]

It had been surprisingly easy for Eliana to return to the office, in the following days. Actually, the hardest part hadn't been stepping into the office itself, but the first walk up there: the same route Rodrigo must have taken, much more quickly, years before.

But there she was, crossing in, when she noticed someone else loitering around. Not Pedro Flores, who'd volunteered to come by and help move her out, but a woman Eliana didn't recognize. She must have had a decade or two on Eliana herself, though that wasn't too difficult; she'd been elected young.

"Hello?" Eliana said, cautiously. She didn't look Aguazuleña, but Eliana wasn't taking anything for granted. "Can I help you?"

"Uh, no," she said, "just waiting for friends. Running late."

"Are you looking for one of the games?"

"Oh no." She paused. "This is NSWC Signups, isn't it?"

"Yeah. Well. For the next few days, anyway."

She nodded. "But, you can do all your vice presidential stuff here, I guess."

Eliana paused, then said, "I'm not staying on."

"Oh, well, pardon me," said the older woman mockingly, "should've figured that would be too much of a step down..."

"No!" Eliana cut her off, emotion breaking nto her voice. "That's not the problem, I would've been more than happy! It's a great job, really, maybe count votes every once in a while but don't have to do anything too important. It's just...things have changed."

"Oh. I'm sorry, didn't mean to offend."

"It's all right. Well, no, it's...you're okay."

"Of course I'm okay!" called Pedro, stepping out of his car across the street from the microstate. "So there're some upsets, so there's the risk of bear maulings, it takes more than that to get me down."

"Bear maulings?" the other woman repeated nervously.

"Only hypothetically," he said merrily, while scrutinizing her face as if she looked familiar to him. But who knew how many people he'd watched or seen pictures of, in his line of work?

"Great. So, are you the new vice president, then?"

"I...am not sure," he admitted. "The Polarians are apparently having two people take charge in the interim. Maybe we don't need one."

"Eliana said it was a great job."

"But not for me. I'd...I don't know. Probably not be able to gamble on anything."

"I do have the paperwork right here," said Eliana, "was planning on filling it out eventually. Now, let's see, who do we have in NSWC Signups and able to take over the job?"

The visitor started, "I mean, if it's not that bad, I think you'd be able to stay on..." but trailed off as Eliana turned to her, a widening grin on her face. "No. No way. You can't..."

"Congratulations, Madame Veep," said Eliana briskly, "now let's get inside and start clearing my junk out."

Pedro's face met his palm.

RP Cutoff

[Turori]

Never Fear, Scores are here (Sorry for the slight delay )

[Starblaydia]

What a long, strange trip it's been.

From barely scraping through Qualifying with a manager in his first World Cup Qualifying campaign, via giving West Angolan striker Luke Parrish the greatest moment of his life, to scoring three goals against the number one nation in the world in both Qualifying to draw and Finals to win, going undefeated in the Group Stage despite being one of the lowest-ranked teams in the competition, to meeting the other lowest-ranked team in the competition in the Semi-Finals of all places, while on the way having scraped a 1-0 win over one of their biggest, yet friendliest, rivals in sports history... Starblaydi football continues to surprise and astound us just as much as their propensity for extremely long one-sentence paragraphs in their round-up reports.

All the reports from within other nations have said that Starblaydia have been quiet and efficient, going about their business in an unaccustomed professional style without boast or bravado. Most looked at the official rankings and point to the fact that the nation attached to the relatively low numbers was Starblaydia, meaning that anything was possible. "It is, after all, the five-time World Champions" they would say, always covering their own backs just in case the famous old name, way past their best, tripped up their high flying national team.

Such was the fate of Sargossa, of Valanora, of Pasarga and The Sylvanaes Queendom. The Holy Empire, who by now know Starblaydia about as well as any other football team thanks to Simeone Di Bradini, also fell under that spell. The tide of white and purple has yet to taste defeat in Turori, and just a short hop over Calania means that plenty of Starblaydi fans have made their way to support the team.

The same is true of United Gordonopia, Starblaydia's equally unlikely (if not more so) Semi-Final opponent. The fact that both of these nations were outside the Top 32 coming into the tournament is proof enough that the world of international football is undergoing one of its more substantial shake-ups. The massive influx of nations into what are continually becoming record numbers of entrants in each and every World Cup is driving on the quality, depth and breadth of football right across the world. One half of the draw sees the 35th and 58th best nations in the world face each other, while the other matches up the 3rd and 39th ranked sides. The lowest-interest World Cup in history, you might think, with so few of the 'big' teams around in the final stages?

Quite the opposite.

Imagine, if you will, the current Semi-Finals as the best four teams in the world: The Holy Empire vs The Babbage Islands and Bears Armed vs Valanora. Though the games might be full of star players with famous names, 99% of the fans around the world would know that they had absolutely no chance of getting there themselves, that the top of the rankings are a closed shop to be dominated by an elite few teams

The likes of United Gordonopia and, yes, even old names such as Starblaydia and Audioslavia (that are now of much lower rank than their respective peaks, but still ranked so much lower than the better teams) in the Semi-Finals means that anyone can do it. What difference between Starblaydia and Chenkorya, or United Gordonopia and Boring Paradise? Three teams in the Semi-Finals are of a lower rank than Legalese (24th), who are Finalists in the Cup of Harmony. It's even possible that the Cup of Harmony can have a match of higher-ranked teams than the Final of the World Cup itself! Jeru FC vs Legalese could be worthy of a World Cup Final, while Starblaydia vs Audioslavia (in terms of their rank, rather than famous names) would be much more fitting for the world's second-tier tournament. But the world isn't that way around right now. There is substantial proof that the lifting the World Cup, becoming World Champions, is a closer fight amongst more teams than ever before.

So what if only four teams have won the last nine Cups, tallying thirteen titles between them? The struggle to get there is more hotly contested now than it has ever been. One of Starblaydia and United Gordonopia will represent themselves in the Final against either one of the pre-tournament favourites in The Babbage Islands, or the great dark horses and chokers of the world in Audioslavia and, either way, it'll be sure to be a great Final.

What a long, strange trip it's been. It's not over yet.

[Audioslavia]

Done with Star's help, co-operation and blessing

Rami Niblick's time away from sports journalism was beginning to show. The vice-president of the Starblaydian FA, a supposed forgmaggio grande of the national game of those dreaded purple imperialists, the guy through whom the power would flow were Starblaydia to take the WCC presidency once again, and Rami Niblick had had to google him.

Frederico Blasii. Senior. FB junior was a footballer. He hadn't recognised the names at first. Times were changing, and Rami hadn't been properly working the sports desks for a year or two now.

The intial, brief search had yielded nothing of interest on the usual websites. News coverage of he Starblaydian had been a minimum, few interviews, a couple of mentions in the business pages, a staid, colourless mugshot on the SFA's official site - thin grey hair, thin grey suit, thin grey beard, thin grey tie, a thin grey man, no doubt with a thin grey car, cat, wife, laptop and LCD television. Rami imagined spermatazoa lining up in an thin, grey orderly queue, ready to board a thin grey egg, ready to become a thin grey baby, but then realised he was being weird.

And then, there were the news items from the past week. Match fixing. Bribery. Lawyers. Feces in a letter box. A confused housewife with her hand on her husband's thin grey shoulder, pleading a group of forty doorstepping journalists to give them some peace and let her husband clear his name.

Rami had gone from a journalist covering football to one covering political corruption. He hadn't reckoned on both areas of his expertise colliding at once. He may not have been the first, or even the thirtieth, journo on this story, but he was sure as hell going to be the one to delve deepest into it.

There was one thing that didn't make sense about this case. A reservation muttered in newspaper offices and the corridors of political power, of the sports ministries of Krytenia, Starblaydia and the like, if not on the streets: F.A. chiefs don't 'do' corruption. Not *this* kind of corruption, anyway. Match-fixing was for the betting syndicates and the mafia, maybe with an informant on the inside, but never from the boss of an entire football association, a job that carried with it a needlessly high salary and, when the national side were performing well and the nation's league was competitive, no pressure at all. There was no reason at all, other than an expertly hidden partizan agenda in favour of one team, why Blasii would risk his career for a few hundred grand - an amount of money that would only augment his pay, not replace it.

Too many things added up, though, and the public had all but convicted him. The newspapers, especially Niblick's Cy'un, had done their job, finding the mud, discovering which parts were stickier than others, and thrucking it squarely in the face of Blasii.

Blasii was a faclesss suit, and as such an easy scapegoat. Splat.

Blasii had connections to a footballer, his son, that benefited from the matches that had been fixed. Splat.

Blasii and his family was from the Cedrus. Splat. Double splat. That one might have contained things much less palatable than mud. Blasii and his family. His 'family'. Boy did that word take on an extra meaning when you brought it to the Cedrus. Images of wise-guys in dark suits, big hats, tommy guns and tomatoes, brown paper bags full of 'sweeteners', and Karditani heads in people's beds. Black and white movies from the 1930s, model T Fords sliding round corners, blaring sirens, rat-a-tat-tat. Ravioli. Stuff like that.

Oh, and the Audioslavian connection too. Cedrus was home to plenty of Audioslavian ex-pats, all tenth and eleventh generation, now, but still purporting to be '100% 'Slav, baby'. Audioslavians weren't even slavs. None of them spoke a word of Auskal. Still, didn't stop them, and it gave the mainlanders even more reason to be suspicious of them. Frederico Blasii had Audioslavian blood, his son played for Cedrus Soundgardia, the New Bulls, claret and green shirts, the famous flame on the crest, a swathe of "Audioslavian" players, many of whom 'legitimately' Audioslavian in the legal sense, but only if they were good enough to play for the Audioslavian national side, and could be coaxed away to the 'old country', exchanging white and violet for the festive pinstripes. Kersplat.

The betting patterns had been flagged immediately, by the bookies, but it had taken until right at the end of the season, the eve of the World Cup, for the news to trickle through to the media. Nobody had taken any notice at first, expecting it to be another bullshit non-story that would blow over in a day. It didn't. The facts kept on coming. The experts studied, scratched their heads and announced suspicions of foul-play. They'd checked again, and again, and by the time the papers were getting out their bold fonts and sensationalist headlines, more and more of the forensic mathematicians and betting experts were getting the confidence to announce that there was something seriously wrong, and on a huge scale.

A colleague of Rami's had explained the situation in the clearest way.

"There's one guy with two hands" he's said. "The first hand writes a threatening letter to Cedrus Soundgardia's goalie, telling him to concede more than two goals or else lose a kidney. It sends messages to one group of people to bet with bookie X on the over-under being +2. The second hand writes a letter to a patsy at Iskara Daii, something along the lines of "If you score more than two goals, I'm gonna kill you." The hands of a few burly Cedrus types pay visits, make sure the players are in no doubt what to do. Another, different group of people are 'tipped' to bet on the over-under being -2. From there, it doesn't matter how the match finishes, the guy with the hands wins"
OK, so it wasn't the greatest explanation, and yielded a quick 'que?' from Rami.
"He owns the bookies"; the guy's reply. "More bets, more money. That's pretty much the only way bookies work. Balancing the odds and the bets is the easy part, it's getting people through the doors that gets you the money.
"So... why do people keep coming back? Half of them are going to lose money. Why not just bribe the goalie to let in four, and then bet on the over-under being +4."
"Because the cops would be onto them in a flash. Odd results, keepers not trying, managers and fans asking questions, no amount of threats to all the marks is going to stop just one of them spilling the beans, and then all the money goes, and that can't happen. One or two odd results is fine, and that's a way for them to get money too, they just have to play the bookies they don't own"
"It's all very.."
"Yeah. Happens though"
"So where does Frederico Blasii fit into this"
"I doubt he does" his associate had said. "I really doubt he does"

He'd set up a unit, tasked various people to get digging the dirt, and waited, watching the mountain of shit pile up on the unfortunate Mr. Blasii. He'd been handed a note by one of his colleagues just before leaving for the evening, planning on avoiding, if possible, the World Cup quarter-final between Polar Islandstates and those dreaded Audioslavians.

No such luck. He'd even chosen a bar with no TV in a desperate attempt to miss the game, and it hadn't worked. How could he miss it? How could he miss it after reading that note.

Among the names, the men pulling the puppet strings, one had stood out simply because it was longer than the others.

Geremio Marrone e Centrodarancia.

He'd flashed a winning smile at a lovely, tanned young barmaid, one who'd looked and sounded Starblayditalian, and asked her for a rough translation.

"It's a name" she'd said. "Can't be translated"
"Yes, of course, but what would the English version of the name be?"
"Hmm. I do not think you have a version of 'Geremio'. The rest... maybe Centrodarancia is 'Centre of Orange'. Marrone is brown. Geremio 'Brown with an orange centre', probably.

Geremio, brown with an orange centre.

Rami's toppled pint-glass had barely finished spinning by the time he was in the taxi, a loud and sharp demand to be taken back to the Cy'un.

---

"Who is this?"
"You know who I am, c***s***er"
"Ah, Mr. Benito Cuboni"
"Don't use my name on the phone, jesus, why I aughta..."
"Relax, this is a secure line"
"You sure"
"It's in my best interests to be. So, how do you do, Mr. Not Benito Cuboni? Call me a sty"
"What?"
"Cammy a sty. Commy esty. It's Starblayditalian, no?"
"..no"
"Well nevermind. So, how are you?"
"We had a deal, Jay Jay"
"Oh good, yeah I'm fine thanks"
"Did you hear me, sh*thead?"
"Something about an adder peel, sounds rather icky to me"
"Listen, buddy, you've been defaulting"
"I'm always defaulting, it's why I revert to, hence the name"
"You know what I mean"
"And what payments am I apparently 'defaulting' on?"
"All of them. Every single of of these cheques has bounced. It's been a month. Money or legs, Jay Jay, money or legs"
"Oh, then I'll take the money, please, I've already got legs. How much do I get?"
"You're gonna regret this, a******, you just signed your own death-warrant"
"Pretty sure that's gonna bounce too"
"You'll bounce. We'll bounce you all the way to Cathair, sh*thead, they'll have to bury you in a particle accelerator"
"Particle Accelerator... didn't he play for Silexhera"
"You've got a day to pay, or it's your legs"
"My legs don't have much money. I mean, they 'claim' the stuff in my jeans, but it's the hands that handle the money"
"Keep talkin', wise guy, you just halved your life expectancy"
"I won't see my four hundredth year? Shame. How about this, then, you tomato-backed day-glo strop, how about you take the money that I owe you, and shove it up your.."
"I CAN'T DO ANYTHING WITH THE MONEY YOU OWE ME, SHIT FOR BRAINS, I DON'T HAVE IT"
"Should have thought about that before you shoved it up your arse then"
"I'm sending the boys, right now, shithead, I'm sending the boys, your days are numbered"
"One t.."
"YEAH ONE TO THIRTY, SMARTASS< HILARIOUS. WAIT BY THE DOOR, WE'LL BE BREAKING IT IN BEFORE YOU CAN SAY 'I'M A DEAD AUDIOSLAVIAN, CAP'?"
"Hey hey now, hey now Benito. Is Luigi there?"
"None of your business"
"That's a yes, then"
"So what if he is? You don't know him"
"I know all the mafiosos, I do, ask them'
"What, f***... hey... hey Tony... you know Jay Jay? Hey... Tony C, Billy M... 'Knees' Maggipinto... you know Jay Jay? Any of youse heard of this klutz? Nah, thought not. Luigi? No. Knew it hey Jay Jay, guess what? Nobody here heard o' you, jerkass"
"You mean Tony Maggio, Tony Capaldi, Billy Malone, Paulie 'Knees' Maggipinto... not even Luigi Sangioverdi... knows who I am?"
"No. Tell you the truth, I don't think I even know your name"
"You know Sonny though, don't you?"
"Who?"
"Sonny. The guy that made this tape recorder."
"Hey... hey wait a minute"
"It's a knock-off, of course, made by thugs and fenians out in Ceilderden, but it works all the same. Hear that droning sound in the background?"
"That the tape?"
"No, that's the voices of your ameechees discussing the order in which their bottoms will be penetrated during their prison term. This is a digital recorder. I have your names, know your faces, know what you eat for breakfast, and you don't know anything about me, and even if you did, well, let's just say if anything happens to me.. you won't like it"
"I'm gonna.."

Jeremy hung up. He turned in his swivel chair and faced the shadowy figure, one dressed similarly to the classic Jaffacake style, but darkers colours, more emphasis on cloth obscuring facial features.
"Sounds like it went well"
"It did, aye. No help in your next game, though. Same to us, I suppose"
The figure smiled.
"You? Your guys? Huh. Your guys weren't part of the deal"
"What, of course they were. World Cup semi-final"
"I didn't do no deal for your guys. Must be there on merit or something. Depends though. Maybe Timo Skye's speech wasn't as good as he coulda made it. Maybe there's a reason Taeshan ran outta gas after their half-time 'oranges', maybe them Bears, semites and hooligans weren't up to scratch for one reason or 'nother. Maybe. I Ijust asked the questions. Answers weren't part of no deal"
"I'll believe what I want to believe"
"Best way"

[United Gordonopia]

A win
Out of nowhere
Came Gordonopia
In the semi-finals by luck
Some skill

---

Arbitrat of Knowledge
New München Island

Was it a ghost?

The young analyst fixated on his monitor. Maybe if he stared long enough, he would realize it had just been his mind putting a face on a stranger. Certainly this couldn't be him. Not now. Not so many years later.

Rather than put his mind at ease, staring at the black and white video feed only caused Sam Whitehall's stomach to turn over. He couldn't deny a resemblance. After searching for the man for so many years, Sam liked to think he would be able to recognize him. The man in the footage was older, sure, but it had been a decade since the war. Since he had disappeared off the face of the Earth. An attack here. An uprising there. A random sighting in some remote village. So many incidents had been blamed on him over the years that it was hard to tell if he was really still around, or if he had fallen in the chaos of the Civil War like so many others. Something in Sam's gut, though, told him that this was different.

"Hey, Ivo," he shouted, signalling his supervisor, "I need you to come look at this."

Clearly stressed, Ivo marched over to Sam's work station. "Please tell me this is for real, Sam. I've had more false reports than Norm Bates has had lovers today, and I don't need another one."

In as reassuring a tone as possible, Sam replied, "Just look at this clip. Watch that man. Riiiiiiight.... there. Did you catch it?"

"Catch what?"

"The man's face. For God's sake, do you recognize this guy?"

Sam caught Ivo's brow furrow; a sign that his boss felt the same way he did. "That can't be..."

"Who else?"

"If this is legit... may God help us all. How in hell did you find this?"

"A contact in Capitol PD forwarded it to me. Traffic cam. He's in charge of ticket review, good contact to have if you want the occasional bit of camera footage. Anyways, he was double checking a claim, and somehow the face stood out to him. The guy is ex-special forces, but a bit too old for anything other than a desk job. But I trust him, and of all the cops I know, he would be the one to recognize him."

"Sam, your friend may have just unearthed a diamond in Tolten. Or maybe a hornets nest in heaven. I don't know which metaphor is better suited."

"So what do we do?"

Ivo paused. He had to think carefully about the next step. Did he really want to take this to the top? One piece of footage was all they had, and it wasn't even first hand. Still, there really was no other option. "Sam, hand me your phone. I need to speak to Meyer."

"You mean-"

"Yes, dammit, I mean Arbitrator Meyer."

Sam let out a deep breath, the seriousness of the situation hitting him finally, as he handed his receiver over to Ivo. It took him a moment to find the number of Arbitrator Ernest Meyer in the Aribrat intranet, but once he had it, he methodically read out the digits.

"Thanks, Sam. Now let's hope he picks-

"Yes, is this Meyer? I'm Ivo Manning, a floor chief over on New München... Yes, I understand you are terribly busy, but I promise you that you will want to hear this. Thank you. I have a source, a reliable one, that just forwarded some footage to one of my men. If we can verify this, which I don't think will be a problem... I don't know how to put this. Sir, if this is legitimate, then we have definitive proof that Captain Vonn Ohoku is alive, and is in Gordonopia City. Yes sir, I understand. You want a video conference? But sir... Alright, I will let my superior... no? Alright, I will be awaiting your word. Good day, sir."

As Ivo hung up, Sam couldn't help but think that he looked like death had taken him that very moment; the severity of the situation at hand was not lost on him. If Vonn Ohoku was back, whatever whispers they were hearing from the capitol were so much more.

---

OOC Context: Since I assume most of you don't follow my II RPs from two years ago, Vonn Ohoku is a former special forces officer who went underground with his men in the waning days of the Civil War that overthrew the Republic and reinstalled my current monarchy. Ohoku was a Republican loyalist, and one of their finest soldiers. He and his command belonged to a small unit, the SPARTANs, of around 700 fighting strength that conducted the Republic's deniable black operations missions, serving as a dagger in the dark. Arbitrator Ernest Meyer was a former member of the unit, and a Monarchist who served as head of the soon-to-be Emperor's guard. He helped Monarchist and allied forces breach the SPARTAN headquarters, and wipe out the vast majority of their network. Only Ohoku's platoon, and a few scattered individual SPARTANs survived the war. Ohoku had been fighting alongside an elite Army tank unit providing behind the lines and rearguard operations, but as the war became more unwinnable, the two units parted ways, with Ohoku taking his platoon into hiding in order to plant the seeds for future Republican resistance.

[Starblaydia]

OOC: The following take place directly after the match with Valanora.

There were no cameras in this part of the airport. The filming and photography had all been done in and around the stadium, and in the official landing earlier in the day. When Lord-Protector Curzon Starblayde left the country, everything was managed. From the touchdown in Turori and appearance at the door of the plane right the way through to getting in his limo with a beaming smile after defeating one of the greatest teams the world had ever seen in the Quarter Finals of the World Cup. His brother, Julius, watched him with an amused eye. Usually it was Julius getting all the attention when the national team went on tour, but when his brother turned up for the important matches, the blinding light of attention turned to the Lord-Protector.

Lena Kochanska's solitary winning goal had lit up Starblaydia, as nothing gets the Starblaydi public's attention quite like having a successful football team. It is no coincidence that the surges in national pride - and subsequently power - have come when the Starblaydi national football team was conquering the world. Curzon Starblayde, leader of the nation, knew it; his brother Julius Starblayde, President of the SFA, knew it; and, fairly crucially, Julius' Chorus* also knew it.

"This goes all the way back to the Qualifiers," Curzon had said in a semi-prepared statement as he left Iobabao Legendary Park, "where we were in a group with the best team in the world above us and a team who has now reached the Final of the Cup of Harmony right behind us. That shows you just how strong Starblaydi football is, once again, to be able to make it to the last four of the AOCAF and then the World Cup immediately after, while amongst that sort of competition. It's the decisions made by the SFA in terms of youth development and coaching that have constructed the platform from which we have excelled. The team performed brilliantly against our old friends Valanora, and I look forward to watching Jeremy Kintz's side in the Semi-Final. Thank-you!"

"I don't know much about football," Chorus said inside Julius' head, "but I know that was a good result."

"Good? It was brilliant!" Julius thought to himself, speaking only to Chorus, "Kochanska's goal was superb, and we played like lions for the whole match!"

Chorus laughed. It was beautiful. It was the kind of laugh that made you misty-eyed and warm on the inside.

"Go and talk to the team," she said, firmly, "be seen. Photographed."

"But I'm going to get on the plane back-" he began.

"Do it." There was to be no argument, based on that tone. "And take Blassii with you."

"But the investigation? I didn't want to bring him in the first place."

"You must carry on like nothing is about to happen, share the nation's shock at his betrayal."

Chorus had never advised him wrong before; even the things that seemed insane had worked out for him. Julius was as happy now as he had ever been. Life was incredible thanks to Chorus, so he would do as she said.

"Curze!" he called ahead as they sped down the hidden corridors of the stadium.

"Yeah?"

"I'm going to stay a while and congratulate the team," Julius said, "I'll sort a later flight out."

"Okay," Curzon replied, "but you know the security teams hate it when you change their plans at the last minute."

"I know," Julius said as the security and intelligence agents all began speaking into their collar and cuff microphones at once, "but it keeps them on their toes. Have a good flight."

"See you soon, Jules."

"Catch you later. Freddie!" Jules called down the line of VVIP Starblaydi officials "let's go and say 'Hi' to the team and your son."

And that was that. Julius would be soon be photographed all smiles and handshakes with the team, a great picture of him kissing Lena Kochanska on the cheek while Frederico Blassii, Snr was grabbing Frederico Blassii Jnr in a proud, fatherly embrace was already set for the inside of the back page - Kochanska striking the ball that would fly so cleanly past Veryasirion Dart was already going to be the back page image for several newspapers. Chorus left him alone for this photo-op. Usually she was there with hints and tips, who to talk to and what to say, but this time she was silent. Maybe it was because he was really learning what best to do, or perhaps because football players weren't her specialist subject. Either way, Julius Starblayde was a very happy man.

---

The plane shuddered with a sickening rumble that shook every man and woman aboard to the pit of their stomachs. The inky blackness of the night sky had been lit up with a single, brief flash of light on the right-hand side of the aircraft.

"What the hell was that?" The Captain yelled as alarms sounded all around them.

"Engine four is out," the co-pilot replied hastily, flicking switches and pressing buttons, "pressures dropping all over the board, trying to contain."

"Birdstrike?" The other engines increased in power to keep the plane cruising along, though they shouldn't be run like that for too long.

"Maybe, hopefully it's just the engine. Bring her lower just in case?"

"Agreed," the Captain nodded and brought the control stick forward to reduce the plane's altitude at, hopefully, a safe velocity.

The cabin door opened behind them. On a commerical flight the sudden opening of the most secure door on the plane would cause some sort of alarm,but on the personal aircraft of Lord-Protector Curzon Starblayde, the only people opening that door would be allowed to do so.

"Engine four's exploded," said the security man as he entered, "Wing looks OK. Can you get us down?"

"We're over the Bekk," the co-pilot said, "I wouldn't advise it, I think we can make it to JAX."

"Then do it-"

The security man was cut short by a second, much larger jolt through the plane. He was practically thrown off his feet as the aircraft lurched violently, dropping out of the sky like a stone.

"Engine three is out!" Yelled the co-pilot, "The whole starboard wing is gone!"

"Mayday! Mayday!" The Captain called into his headset but received only static in return. "Comms are down too, I can't get her steady, she's gonna break up!"

"Get the Lord-Protector out!" The security man, bleeding from a cut to his head, yelled into his collar microphone.

But it was too late. The fuselage began to tear itself apart under the immense stresses and there was nothing that the Captain, the co-pilot, the security team or the Starblaydi fighter jets protecting the jetliner at a discreet distance could do about it.



* 'Chorus' is the name Julius Starblayde gives to the female voice in his head that advises him.

[Audioslavia]

A Screw of the Terns

"Jon Halvard Birkkesen! Timo Skye! Franz Josef! Sol Kirkkegaard! Dima Koolhaas! Can you hear me? Jorgen Hauge! Axel of Heiburg IV! President Iversen! Magnus Ragnorak! Efraim Felix Forsberg! Can you hear me? Efraim Felix Forsberg! Your boys took a hell of a beating! Your boys took a hell of a beating!"

It wasn't supposed to happen. The Polarians were supposed to be too strong, too hungry, the gap between the two sides too much to overcome. They'd come out on top, comfortably, in 2164 and 2165 and, on neutral territory, with the stakes this high, they were supposed to win out in 2166 as well.

It wasn't so much that Audioslavia beat them, the Polarians choked. Oh boy did the Polarians choke.

When asked before the game whether he'd be making drastic changes to the style of play that saw the 'slavians beaten comfortably by the boys from the north in the qualifying campaign, Klimt had simply shrugged, told journalists that the team was playing well, that the Terns would be tough, but he had every faith in his players. We, in the media, didn't agree, but what can anyone say against a man who has lead his team to the quarter finals of a World Cup nobody expected them to qualify for, and without conceding even a single goal?

Our worst fears were that the Polarians would take an early advantage and never look back, much akin to last year's game which saw Audioslavia lose two first half goals and get rolled over, the 4-2 scoreline flattering Audioslavia. Klimt will point to the increasingly strong defence, but in truth the Polarians were stiff, nervous and prone to misplaced passes and bickering. Whereas mistakes in previous games had lead to redoubled efforts and greater concentration, the act of giving the ball away in this World Cup quarter-final seemed to lead to pointed fingers, shrugs, gestures indicating the intended recipient was badly placed, or hadn't read the pass well enough, gestures from the accused that the passer in question would struggle to hit a barn door from five yards, and most importantly, Audioslavian possession.

Audioslavia's brand of 'keep-ball' is an odd one. The side have, in recent years, attempted to clog the midfield and play the ball in short, one-touch bursts, but have more often than not either found their technique lacking or, in the case of more physical sides like Polar Islandstates, muscled off the ball far too easily. The game Klimt has developed, with Audioslavia's limitations in mind, stretches the midfield, plays the ball into space rather than to the feet of the midfielders, banking on the wide, cross-field play pulling the opposition out of their natural shape, creating holes and gaps for the attacking players to exploit.

It was one such instance that almost lead to the opening goal, just twewnty-five minutes in. A Weverton Sporadic ball, looping from one wing to the other, a header by Zonnestraal, back to James Courier, who pinged the ball first time to the feet of Karsten Eiger, on the edge of the penalty area. Eiger, a big strong lad by Audioslavian standards, if merely 'normal' by that of the Polarians, turned, created a yard of space and slammed a shot against the foot of the far post with Rasmus a spectator, drawing pained gasps from the fifty thousand in attendance.

The Polarians pressed on, but continued to find themselves suscepitble to Audioslavian counter-attacks, most no more dangerous than the ones they'd quelled easily in the qualifying games. Time and time again, Weverton, Zonnestraal and Eiger were allowed to create passages of play, to get in behind positionally suspect defenders and threaten the goal. Eiger would come close to scoring on forty minutes, running onto a through-ball and slipping a finish underneath the goalkeeper that nevertheless ran two feet wide, and John Ryan managed to overcome the discrepancy in height by redirecting a curling free-kick towards goal and past Rasmus, yet had to watch on as Torre Urfstadt headed the ball off the line.

The sum total of Polar Islandstates' goalscoring opportunities in a shaky first half were two mid-range efforts, from Van Sorenson and Elmsvikur, that sailed wide and dropped into the arms of Imaslavii respectively.

As has been the case in this cycle, Polar Islandstates came out for the second half with a renewed sense of purpose, even if the problem of their attacking fluidity hadn't been addressed. The wingers began to come into the game, the full-backs doubling up on Audioslavia's flank men, all with the express purpose of knocking high balls into the box for the target men to get their heads to.

It just.. didn't quite work. Time and time again, when the crosses came in, the strikers were out of position, or hadn't made up enough ground, or the crosses themselves were wayward, straight into the arms of the goalkeeper or high and long and bouncing out for a throw in. The blue-clad supporters tried to roar their team into gear, encouraging the same passages of play, more balls into the box, more pressure on the Audioslavian defence, more effort, more work, but by the seventieth minute rolled around, and with still no real gain but for forcing two reaction saves from Imaslavii, the Polarians were looking tired, dispirited, the exhasperated frustration of the first half creeping back into their psyche.

Audioslavia, like a patient, wise old boxer, came off the ropes, weaved through a tired jab and brought their opponent to their knees with a sickening body shot.

A Cornelius corner was woefully underhit, being cleared out to the edge of the area by Ruy Garcia and seemingly into the path of Villeneuve, who hesitated, allowing substitute Mannestraal to nip in ahead of him and knock the ball away down the wing, sprinting onto it ahead of the back-tracking Juul and looking across to see Weverton, Eiger and Zonnestraal joining the attack, in the channels between two poorly positioned backtracking defenders. Mannestraal played the pass up to Eiger, who helped it onto Weverton, the playmaker feinting to cut inside the defender and instead stopping and waiting for the chance to play a pass down the right-side channel for Zonnestraal to run on to. That he did, and Zonnestraal raced into the box, the angle too tight for a shot on goal but with options to his left. He feinted a pass to Eiger, who was quickly being closed down by two defenders, and instead pulled the ball back to a late-arriving James Courier. Courier, not known for his finishing abilities, went for power over placement and thumped the ball full pelt, high into the underside of the bar and into the back of the net. The goalkeeper had barely moved.

The goal cued a spell of Audioslavian possession that further annoyed and frustrated the increasingly desperate Polarians. Substitute Eyvindur Sudesval was lucky to escape a red card with a terribly late challenge on Courier, before Cornelius capped off a disappointing performance by being dismissed for a second yellow card with just five minutes to go, pulling down Zonnestraal as the winger tried to pass him.

Polar Islandstates World Cup campaign, which had started with a 1-0 reverse against lowly Fewmist, had ended with an upset of only slightly less magnitude, but one that will haunt the Polarians for years to come.

And So, to the Semis

Much has been made of the oddly low-ranked status of the World Cup's final four. Babbage Islands aside, whom Audioslavia have the pleasure of playing for a place in next week's final. In one corner are the Bumble Bees, now by far and away the favourites for the competition (not that that helped Polar Islandstates or Valanora), their passage to the semis has been quieter than the others, having topped their qualifying group with little in the way of drama, taken seven points from the group stage and progressed through the knockouts via two hum-dingers against Milchama and Archregimancy, winning by three goals to two on both occasions. If there's one thing stopping the boys in yellow its that, well, they have a similar record to Audioslavia in the biggest game of all, having played twice and lost twice, most recently succumbing to the now-wheel-less Aguazulenya juggernaut in the final of World Cup 60.

In the other semi-final, the surprise package of the competition, even by this tournament's standards, is United Gordonopia, who managed to stay afloat in group A despite emerging with a negative goal-difference. For every matchday since, the Gordonopians have been tipped as the least likely to progress, expected to be outplayed and outclassed by the Farves in the quarter-final, but first by the world number-ones The Holy Empire, a match the men in green held goalless, fighting against wave upon wave of orthodox attack, until winning out on penalties in the biggest upset of the World Cup so far.

United Gordonopia find themselves pitted against a team that, many say, is the weakest they've ever been, even going back to their debut in World Cup 15. The Purple Peril, Il Viola Vile, those dreaded men (and women) in mauve. Starblaydia. Writing about Starblaydia being out of the depth in the semi-final of a World Cup, even now, seems farcical, yet a glance through the roster yields only Iskara Daii's Lena Kochanska as a truly world-class player. The side, with an average age of about thirty, weren't even supposed to be in the World Cup, expected by most to, firstly, not make it to the playoffs, then to succumb to the talented Licentiapacisterrans, then to fail in what was undoubtedly this tournament's Group of Death, with world champions and #1 ranked Holy Empire, a strong Pasarga side, and former champs Sylvanaes Queendom. The opening day 3-2 victory over the holy men shocked the world (although with the monks' failure to beat United Gordonopia in that second round, doubts have been cast over the true power of this year's incarnation of the team that swept all before them four years ago), and two spirited draws catapulted the artists formerly known as Blades into the second round. They were supposed to be brushed aside by Sargossa. They didn't. They were supposed to be finally put in their place by the rampaging marauders of Valanora, but again, the Starblaydians refused the guillotine and raised their swords to the necks of their supposed conquerors, daring the then-favourites to make a forward step, something Valanora utterly failed to do in a miserable 1-0 defeat.

And then, linking the Starblaydis to the Audioslavians, a giant asterisk.

News coming out of Starblaydia, a trickle at first, but growing ever larger, has linked the tiny island of Cedrus - owned by Starblaydia, habituated by many Audioslavian diaspora - to a match fixing scandal that has engulfed the nation, throttling a national media that, one suspects, jumped on a small hill of circumstantial evidence supporting match-fixing in the Starblaydian leagues as a way of burying what they expected to be bad news coming from Aguazul and Turori, with regards to the fate of the national team. Starblaydians are, once again, getting behind their side in the final stages of a major tournament, but the issue has not and cannot go away and, with so many questions still unanswered, a few fingers have been pointed at the national team. If Cedrus Soundgardia's fortune in the Liga Starblaydia was being controlled by the Garibaldis - the biscuit-based mafia of the Cedrus - then mightn't the national team also be enjoying a little 'help' in the tournament? Had the Starblaydis been a losing side in the tournament, the players themselves might be implicated, but as it stands, the question remains: Have the Sylvanaes, the Pasargans, the Valanorans - all close enough to mainland Starblaydia to make communication between people in the countries very easy - been complicit in any wrongdoing?

A cynic would balk at the utter lack of evidence. Conspiracy theorists, however, have other ideas.

The fact that the scandal eminated from the Cedrus has also brought into question the passage of Audioslavia - ranked number 53 in the world when qualifiers began, and not tipped by many to qualify despite being reigning champions of Atlantian Oceania - to the semi-finals of the World Cup. Again, there is precisely zero evidence suggesting any wrong doing, but merely the fact that Audioslavia and Starblaydia's results have near mirrored each others - a narrow win over a top-two ranked nation followed by two draws in the first round, a shock win in the second round followed by the narrow defeat of a close, friendly rival - has been enough to bring the conspiracy nuts to youtube, and the theory itself to the national papers.

For many Audioslavians, the sideshow of a foreign match-fixing scandal can go and drop out of the sky, for all it cares. Audioslavia, the grand old nation, are in the semi-finals of a World Cup.
"And you know what that means" :- People who believe history has any bearing on the present.
They have a point. Audioslavia have played in four World Cup semi-finals and won them all, being unbeaten when it comes to the final four. Indeed, in ten appearances in the semis of major tournaments, Audioslavia have lost only once. Audioslavia winning a semi-final is, as people say, as sure as their losing the resulting final.

Kickoff grows ever nearer to Audioslavia's biggest game since the re-emergence onto the world scene. A nation, once again, holds its breath.

IBJJ, G'NB

[The Babbage Islands]

Captain Donald Robert Wild, OB, BCG (Ret.)

First it was the Starblaydia-Valanora quarterfinal. The hypemasters were in ecstasy at this one, pitting the two most-decorated sides in World Cup history. On recent form the Starblaydi win was more of a surprise than it might have been in past years, with some authors suggesting that this eleven is perhaps the weakest squad of all those that have worn the purple in the Cup tournament.

Those who weren't hyping the twin titans were salivating over the Farfadillis-United Gordonopia showdown, also a quarterfinal, pairing two first-time qualifiers with one guaranteed a slot amongst the first four of the tournament. Here was another story ready-made for the spilling of inkwells and the burnout of over-active electrons. The United Gordonopia victory puts them against Starblaydia, and these vanquishers of #1 The Holy Empire are unlikely to be awed by the Starblaydi legend.

Now the hype shifts to the other half of the draw for the semifinals as the two most-lauded non-champions in World Cup history face off for the very first time. Audioslavia have been to more World Cup finals (four so far) than any squad ever without winning a Cup. And The Babbage Islands have been to more World Cup semifinals (seven, including this one and three of the preceding five) than any squad ever without winning a Cup.

It's also a battle of old versus new, with Audioslavian glory including finals as early as the 12th World Cup and as late as the 29th whilst the Babbage teams didn't play in their first Cup until twenty cycles later. It's the renaissance of a once-mighty power in a short time to challenge again for dominance against a modern power that has now spent decades in the world's top ten. Both sides could be forgiven for looking beyond this epic matchup to their ultimate opportunity for redemption in the final. But neither is likely to succumb to that temptation; they didn't get to #12 and #14 in the latest update of the all-time rankings by losing their focus.

With three goals in the last two matches Sergio Flores Cotto will be key to the Bumblebee attack. Equally important will be midfield play from the likes of Coll Brodie as they try to solve a possession game that stymied a highly-regarded Polar Islandstates team in last round's upset. Kaitlyn Miller will be back in nets for the Bumblebees after two matches off battling the flu, suiting up to start for the fourth time in a World Cup semifinal. Ava Gillespie was also in hospital after the quarterfinal, but is expected to make her normal start.

Don't be surprised if this one goes to one-twenty and kicks, my friends. Lay in plenty of popcorn.

[Aguazul]

"And then nukes dropped on the sport fields!"

Emilio opened his eyes. "Oh, you have got to be kidding me."

"You're awake?"

"Yes. What's all this about nukes?"

"Oh. Just some silly broadcast, nothing actually happening. I'll change the channel."

"Thank you. Where am I? What's going on?"

"You're in the hospital. I work here...someone saw your car and dug you out. Do you know what happened?"

"I think so. Though I can't quite believe it. What's up in the Supercentro?"

"We're not exactly sure." He gave a start. "But everyone should be fine! Just, establishing a transitional government or something. I don't understand the details."

"Oh. Well. That's all right, then."

"Your family has been by already. I'll let them know you're conscious, and they'll be back soon I'm sure."

"No need to wake them, I assume it's the middle of the night. And, hey. Even if it wasn't, do you have a light to turn on in here? Or what kind of hospital is this?"

"We like to think we do the best we can. But...the injuries to your head were extremely severe."

"You don't say."

"There's no easy way to put this, Mr. Guaman, but we don't expect you to regain your eyesight."

He paused. "Well, can't say I expected to get out of that in one piece. Military that competent, it's no wonder we've got this transitional government...I'll find a way to manage."

"Your recovery so far has been impressive, yes."

"So what's that noise, a radio or TV? This will take some getting used to."

"TV. Trying to drum up some excitement about the football, don't ask me why, so they're interviewing someone or other."

He listened a while. "NSWC Signups? That sounds like Mosqueda."

"Yeah, probably."

"Let's see, there's a couple more women... their Spanish isn't that fluent, but all right. The older one seems like she learned it here, Aguazul I mean, it's the right dialect even if she's not native. And she's translating for an even older man, speaking English. I'd say she's about my age. No, actually, if they're not from around here they're probably healthier, let's say the younger one is my age."

"Yeah. Um. That looks just about right."

He was still the farsighted one.

RP Cutoff

[United Gordonopia]

Something was amiss. What? Ernest Meyer did not yet know. That meant trouble.

The timing of everything could not have been more perfect. The nation was fixated on the unprecedented success of the National Team at the World Cup. Most of the government was focused on the imminent transfer of power, what with the Emperor on his death bed. Few were left to think about anything else. Meyer was among that small group.

As the head of the nation's secret police, he could not afford to be caught off guard. Something bad was brewing, and he felt one step behind. A friend had once described him as a spider. At the center of his web, he could detect the smallest vibrations. Prey. Now he felt as if he was struggling to free himself from silk.

The whispers had been reached his ear since word first broke of the Emperor's deteriorating health. Ever so faint. Perhaps just whispers in the dark. Perhaps more. Vonn Ohoku being sighted in the capitol flushed out his senses. With everything converging, this had to mean something big. The last SPARTAN commander would rise from the ground unless that was the case. Meyer had to dig. He needed to stop it, whatever it was, before it was too late.

A few traced calls. Bugged offices. Tailed marks. A faint picture of the oncoming storm was being painted before Meyer's eyes. He knew for one thing that the Republicans had to be involved, else Ohoku would not have appeared. Since the end of the Civil War, nigh a decade, there were some who continued to fight the lost cause. Today, the threat had all but died off. An occasional raid. Perhaps a bombing. For the most part a memory. That did not mean there were not elements that couldn't post a threat. A regime in power 150 years is not simply torn up without leaving a few deep roots.

The Republicans alone, though, would not be a problem. The lot of Gordonopia was undeniably better than before the war, and the people supported the Monarchy for it. The slums of Tolten were finally becoming liveable. Talented individuals from all spheres were able to break the bounds of the capitalist inequalities that had previously kept them down. Even internationally, Gordonopia was becoming known. The Gordonopian Monarchy had managed to defy all inherent notions about its system of governance.

Still, there seemed to be those who would undo it all. Exactly why, Meyer had yet to figure out. What he was beginning to piece together was who. It seemed that several other anti-Republican opposition groups who had sided with the Monarchists during the war were involved. Perhaps they saw an opportunity in the imminent transfer of power. Perhaps they had long planned their upcoming move. Whatever the case, Meyer could not allow it to happen.

He finally had a lead, and he would pursue it. The far-left socialists had been an unlikely ally of the Monarchy during the war, but they had given their support in exchange for promises towards labor and increased state economic control. Promises that had undeniably been kept. Nevertheless, various communications coming from the office of a socialist leader, and high-ranking government official, indicated that they were somehow involved in the growing conspiracy.

Ernest Meyer was about to pay a visit.

[The Babbage Islands]

Captain Donald Robert Wild, OB, BCG (Ret.)

Q: Did you know that the Bumblebees have won more World Cup semifinals than they've lost in regulation time?
A: Oh, you don't care either.

The Babbage Islands are heading to the third place match of the World Cup for the fifth time after going to extra time in a semifinal and losing for the fourth time.

And nobody cares. Finishing third or fourth isn't enough.

A choked-up Kaitlyn Miller announced her anticipated retirement after the loss, finally clearing the way for Maria Carrizales to take over the starting keeper's role. Carrizales will start against United Gordonopia,

And nobody cares. Winning 101 caps in a probable Hall of Fame career isn't enough.

There is turmoil in the Football Federation of Babbage offices back home, peaking with the voluntary resignation of general secretary Cathy Trillium.

And nobody cares. Another stupid powerplay at FFB isn't enough.

But there is a hospital bed in Aguazul occupied by a dying woman in her thirties, for national team captain Ava Gillespie collapsed on the pitch in the 41st minute of that semifinal match. All the heart in the world can't overcome a body that cries, "Enough."

We care about important things.

[Audioslavia]

"As Starblaydia, newly-entered into the history books as AOCAF Cup Runners-Up, lose their opening World Cup Finals match to Audioslavia, [we shoud] never forget ... that Starblaydia are in the Word Cup Finals.
Simeone Di Bradini may have scored Fifteen Goals in World Cup Qualifiers, but Ahmed Ol-wairain is the only one to have scored in the Finals. This is the thin end of the tip
of the cutting-knife-edge, Ladies and Gentlmen, and we can mix metaphors with the best of 'em. Bring on the Clansmen, and once we've beaten them for the first time
in three attempts we'll go on and avenge the AOCAF3 Final in another Bekkside Derby with the Druids. Then we'll lose miserably in the Second Round,
but we'll be back. As horses, we're so Dark we make Black Beauty look like an Albino, we make the Checkered Czechs a single tone of grey
Keep your money on Starblaydia and, more often than not, you'll be going down to the bookies with a smile on your face."
:- Eerily prescient Starblaydian news report, June 4th 1982, after the opening match of World Cup 17.

---

BULLS ON THE BRINK

Eiger's brace took his tally to three for the tournament, and Audioslavia to their fifth World Cup Final.

You'll have grown tired of the statistics by now. Audioslavia, the least successful record in the history of World Cup Final matches, the team with the 0-4 record, the penalty shoot-out loss to Rejistania in World Cup 12, the 1-0 defeats to Crystilakere and Vilita, the World Cup 29 defeat to Casari, the huge gap between final appearances, twice champions of Atlantian Oceania and former Bapitsm of Fire winners. Starblaydia, the luckiest side in World Cup finals, five wins, just one defeat, the six AOCAF wins, and the fact that both teams are well past their 'best' and ranked only in the thirties.

That the final of the World Cup is Audioslavia - Starblaydia is akin to the world heavyweight boxing championship being fought by two ex-contenders in their mid forties, while younger, fresher, fitter, stronger and better boxers look on from the box seats, wondering why it isn't themselves in that ring instead.

Audioslavia were very nearly on the outside looking in themselves.

For all the feel-good factor surrounding the Bulls and their journey to the latter stages of a World Cup for the first time since yada yada yada, it has often been apparent during the campaign that, when the good teams play well, Audioslavia have to dig deep just to remain competitive. That doggedness and determination had squeezed the side through some tough encounters and, as the dust settled on the first five games, the men in claret and green had a big, round zero in the 'Goals Against' column. There had been whisperings that, as soon as that record fell, the rest - the furthest in the competition since WC29, the best performance by modern Audioslavia, the glittering unbeaten semi-final record - would come tumbling after. When The Babbage Islands took the lead on the twelve minute mark, a feeling of resignation must have been sinking in to the millions of viewers around the world.

And it was all so simple.

A short pass from Bearchán O'Dea to Gillespie who returned it, another short, well weighted pass behind the defence to striker Valentine Armstrong, who powered a low finish past Imaslavii for one-nil. The Audioslavian defence, usually so stubborn, had been slow to react to the danger and had paid the price with interest.

By the forty minute mark, after a very brief spell of pressure from the Audioslavians where they nevertheless failed to create a chance, Babbage Islands began to threaten to score a second. Three corners in a row were won, the last one being headed straight at the bar by O`Dea, and as Sergio Flores Cotto lined up a shot from the edge of the area, it seemed only a matter of time before the Audioslavian defences were breached again.

By the time Kajaxo Imaslavii pounced on the deflected shot, picked the ball up and bounced it a couple of times, looking for an outlet, nobody was paying attention any more.

Babbage Islands centre-half - what proponents of the Bears Armed system call the 'lynchpin' - Ava Gillespie, has been playing through the pain of a cancer diagnosis and, struggling under the strain, the player's strength gave way on forty-one minutes, causing a halt in play as the medics were brought on to treat and, finally, carry the exhausted midfielder from the field.

It was a sickening sucker-punch to the stomach of the Babbage Islands side, and one Audioslavia had done nothing towards.

The men and women in yellow and black tried in vain to put their minds back on the game, but the shock of seeing a friend and colleague in obvious distress was too overpowering and, in a vulgar display of ruthlessness bordering on bad sportsmanship, Audioslavia equalized in the sixth minute of first-half injury time.

The only saving grace was that, after poking a deflected pass past the goalkeeper, Karsten Eiger's celebration was muted.

The second half, then, and what amounted to one of the most emotional halves of football ever seen in the world cup, even at this stage.

The Babbage Islands side, clearly shaken by the loss of a key midfield talisman, but bolstered by news that Gillespie was stable, roared out of the blocks for the second half. Audioslavia too, after some words of encouragement from manager Israel Klimt, imploring his side to be professional in the extroadinary circumstances, block out everything that wasn't the football game they were playing, rose to the challenge too, and the sides exchanged chances and shots on goal in a blistering opening twenty minutes, something utterly at odds with the ultra-conservative play of Audioslavia's previous games. Audioslavia's brilliant semi-final record, TBI's poor one, Ava Gillespie, the prospect of righting a wrong in the gold-medal game, finally, all of that went out the window.

Eiger for Audioslavia, a golden opportunity denied by a sprawling save from the experienced Kaitlyn Miller.

Cotto for Babbage Islands, a crisp finish of a six-pass move that lurched round the post from a lucky deflection from the goaleeper's hip.

Cotto again, a volley, tipped over the bar.

Wan Daoxi, replacement midfielder, striking a volley off the bar from ten yards, in what would have been a magnificent strike and a hollywood moment in the game.

Eiger again for Audioslavia, an over-hit lob beating Miller all ends up, but floating safely over the bar.

Weverton Sporadic, a dribble down the right wing, a cut inside, and an unexpected snap-shot from thirty-five yards, swirling, dipping, over Miller, under the bar but an inch wide of the far post.

Valentine Armstrong would go closest. In fact, Armstrong would go as close as you could get to scoring without a goal being counted for his team. A horrendous, terrible call of offside from the assistant referee, after a defence-splitting through ball on the counter-attack. John Ryan, caught napping at the back for the first time in the tournament, was playing the striker onside by two yards, but a poorly placed linesman got his bearings wrong, thought for a moment, and raied his flag as the striker was curling an easy finish round Imaslavii.

Another injustice. Another stroke of terrible luck for the Bumble Bees. Lesser teams would have all but given up at that moment, and as the full-time whistle neared, it was still the world's #3 ranked nation that was on top. More possession, more shots on goal, more shots on target, better pass completion, the better team. Undoubtedly.

And then. Full time. Extra-time around the corner. Five minutes to sit and think about the events of the past ninety minutes, and what fate could have in store for the team in the second half. A temporary release for the mind, as well as the legs, and it was one that the in-form Babbage Islands just could not afford.

The tempo in the second half fell only slightly, but just enough for the men in yellow's advantage to wane, for their silhouettes to have a traceable form, rather than simply appear to be an angry yellow blur to the Audioslavians. The rest had, paradoxically, allowed fatigue to set in, and an Audioslavia side under the kosh for the latter stages of normal time found themselves the aggressors in overtime. Eiger, playing his second 120-minute match in eleven days, either side of the ninety-minute fight against Polar Islandstates, showed his fitness by making an utter nuisance of himself, harrying the Babbage Islands defenders when on the ball, forcing a clearance rather than a pass to feet, giving the Bulls the ball, which they kept, and increased the pressure on team in yellow.

Finally, with two minutes to play in the first half of extra-time, the Bulls got the breakthrough, a blocked shot falling to Eiger who found time to dig the ball out of his feet and swing an awkward left foot at it, connecting with enough power to beat the goalkeeper low to her far post. The pained expression on her face as she watched it roll into the corner, and over the line, captured on a high-definition slow-mo camera for all to see, will likely become a memorable image of the World Cup, as will Eiger's gleeful celebration, twisting his fingers into a heart shape as he raced towards the crowd.

Reports coming from the comittee behind World Cup 64 - usually set up in a ceremonial fashion at the start of the preceding World Cup - announced last night that The Babbage Islands had rescinded an automatic registration for the next tournament. Whether or not that remains the case by the time qualifiers get underway in two years time remains to be seen, but if the rumours are true, then The Babbage Islands performance in the second half of extra-time in this World Cup 63 final would be the last truly competitive actions of a great footballing nation.

It would prove to be a microcosm of the Babbagian football over the past sixteen World Cups.

They started slowly, finding their feet, being forced to weather the storm in front of their own goal for the opening two minutes. From there, a substitution, bringing on a newman to help the bring the side into the game and from there, not looking back. The opposition were pressed back to where they came from as the swarms of yellow shirts set up shop in the latter half of the pitch and refused to move, cementing an authority on the game in a firm, yet fair, manner, the talents of the players shining through, Babbagian resilience, tenacity and skill on show for all to see...
..they just couldn't find the winning blow.

The full-time whistle blew on a Babbagian team that supposedly ends its tenure as a major footballing superpower with a record of having co-hosted two World Cups, made seven semi-final appearances, four (possibly five) third-places, two appearances in the final itself but, heartbreakingly, zero wins on the world stage.

The experience of getting so close yet having your plans scuppered, whether through fault or foul, and having to leave the sport behind with ambitions unfulfilled, is one few teams can really, truly relate to. Of the ones that can, few would be able to explain such a feeling. Of those teams, at least one would agree that, in a battle between yourself and the world, it is better not to admit defeat and walk away, but simply to defer the brutal f*****g asskicking you're going to give Starblaydia. Wait... what were we talking about?

Ah yes. Starblaydia.

"The enemy of mine enemy is my friend", so the saying goes, and Krytenia has been wedged so firmly in the middle of the Star/Kry/Aud hate-triangle for so long that it has often been all to easy to forget the guys 'kicking the other end' are there.

That's not to say Audioslavia and Starblaydia haven't had their moments.

The rain in Kaze helps the 'Slavia stun the Blaydes
Audioslavia win unpretty opening game

Code: Select all

Audioslavia (4-5-1)
 ----------------------------------------------
|                     1                        |
|                  Fenwick                     |
|       2        4        20        6          |
|    Pearce   Romanov  Johnstone O`Rourke      |
|                                              |
|             18            8                  |
|           Tessem        Tanner               |
|    7                              11         |
| Johansen            14           Jaynes      |
|                   Marriot                    |
|                                              |
|                      9                       |
|                   Bracken                    |
 ----------------------------------------------
|              10             9                |
|          Di Bradini       Hall               |
|                                              |
|                     8                        |
|                    Hill                      |
|         11                      7            |
|      Hawthorne       4        Stark          |
|                    Carter                    |
|       3          6         5          2      |
|     Salaam     Brown     Martin   Salisbury  |                               
|                                              |
|                       1                      |
|                   Da Silva                   |
 ----------------------------------------------
Starblaydia (4-4-2)

In torrential downpour at the Gateway Arena, Taqizerr, Kaze Progressa, Audioslavia squeezed past a skillful but stuttering Starblaydia team.

The rain made sure the first half was barely watchable. Neither side could find a way through with Starblaydia finding it difficult to pass the ball on the sticky turf and Audioslavia unable to get the ball to their front men or even to get the ball at all.

The opening half hour was played mainly in the 'slaves half as Starblaydia's midfield held their own and sought to get the ball up to the dangerous strikers. A couple of chances were taken from outside the box and young winger Michael Hawthorne successfully got the ball down the wing only to see the 'slaves defence deal with his crosses comfortably.

The rain was beginning to peter out but both the 'blaydes and the 'slaves still had to fight hard against the muddy ground. The match seemed to be going to a goal-less stalemate with Starblaydia's pacey strikers and Audioslavia's quick wingers cancelled out by the lack of grip on the turf. It became apparent that both sides would have to gain an advantage by going about the match a different way.

Still unable to pass themselves out of trouble, Audioslavia went to the old 'plan b' system. The 'hoof the ball to the big 'yins up front' style which they employed so well in World Cup 4 (and not so well in 5, 6, 7, 8 or 9). A Johnstone clearance found Marriot on the half-way line and from there Audioslavia went on the first proper attack of the day. Marriot layed the ball off to Bracken who flicked the ball to Tessem on the left hand side. Tessem got himself down to the by-line as best he could, harried by Ceri Salisbury and impeded by the mud. His cross was blocked well by Salisbury and the ball went up in the air. Tessem got to it ahead of the Starblaydi full-back and looped a header backwards to Tanner who was arriving at the corner of the 18-yard box. Tanner squared to Marriot, who sought to flick the ball into the box but mis-hit it in the mud. Nevertheless, the defence was caught out as the ball swung towards the goal instead of towards the awaiting strikers. Da Silva came out to collect the ball in his arms but as he went to clutch Danny Bracken was there to toe-end the ball out of his reach and into the bottom corner. A scrappy goal to cap-off a scrappy first half.

With the pitch drying up (thanks to a cool KazEngineering drainage system) the second half was expected to be a little more fruitful in terms of entertainment. Surprisingly, it wasnt at all. The next period was littered by fouls and bookings. Tanner earnt himself a yellow card by clattering into Hill and almost got himself a red as he aggressively accused the Starblaydi midfielder of diving. Starblaydia's Moses Brown went in for what was seen as a 'revenge' tackle of the 'slavian midfielder, crippling him as Tanner tried to trick him. Brown was yellow carded, Tanner almost got sent off again as he was went to swing for the defender but was restrained by Tessem (probably for Tanner's own good). The second half looked like it was going to take as long to get started as the first as time and time again the match was stopped and started by fouls, offside decisions and niggling injuries, one of which saw Salaam leave the field for thirty seconds whilst the physios attended to a cut over his eye after a clash with Marriot in the air. They would turn about to be the most crucial thirty seconds of the game.

First of all, Paul Ward replaced an exhasperated Khully Tanner with striker William Ryder as the 'slaves sought to bolster their struggling front line. Then, with the absense of left-back Salaam, the 'slaves sought to get an attack going down that wing. Pearce and Tessem combined to let Johansen down the wing. Cayle Johansen tried to sprint down and cut inside but Brown expertly chased him back out to the wing. Johansen tried to whip the ball into the box to one of the few 'slavians who were flooding into it as the Starblaydi defence stood their guard. The cross flew in and Martin went to head the ball away but somehow didnt seem to jump high enough. Ryder leapt behind him and nodded the ball downwards to the bottom-left hand corner.

Ryder wheeled away to celebrate the unlikely 2-0 lead whilst several Starblaydi players chased after referee claiming Ryder had held Martin down. Action replays showed one of Ryder's elbows on Martin's neck, but whether it was a deliberate foul or a natural action caused by jumping for the ball was hard to decipher. The goal stood despite the Blaydi players' claims, and Audioslavia were on the way to an ill-deserved but hard-fought win.

With the game entering it's twighlight minutes, Starblaydia went to blitz the Audioslavian goal. The Blaydes brought on two stikers, Torino and Ol-wairan for Hill and Hall. Of the two subs, the former sought to bolster the midfield whilst the latter proved a revelation, succeeding where Hall had failed in penetrating the 'slaves backline and making some good opportunities.

The first of these came on seventy-five minutes as Ol-wairan started getting the better of a tiring Didi Romanov. He turned the defender on the edge of the box and went through on goal, narrowly curling his shot round the keeper but also round the post. Two minuted later he forced Fenwick to make a save as he volleyed a fifteen-yard shot which needed Fenwick at full-stretch to parry the ball into the path of Johnstone who knocked the ball into touch.

When Ol-wairan did score it was something special, almost making up for the shit eighty-minutes of football preceeding it. The plucky centre-forward picked the ball up on the half-way line and sent over a beautiful ball to Hawthorne on the right wing. Hawthorne jinked past Tessem and made to sprint down the wing, but instead feeding Di Bradini the ball. Di Bradini bided his time, toying with Johnstone before flicking the ball square to Ol-wairan who was arriving. The twenty-nine year old smashed the ball hard past a helpless Fenwick and Audioslavia's lead was halved.

The dying minutes were dominated by Starblaydia and made for brilliant football. The fact that neither side had tired after playing out eighty minutes on such a pitch was testement to their fitness, and probably the fact that the average ages of the two first elevens were 25.5 and 26 for Starblaydia and Audioslavia respectively.

The Starblaydi strikers peppered at the Audioslavian goal. Ol-wairan, now being marked by two players, almost got through but was tackled well by a back-tracking Pearce, whilst Di Bradini headed a cross agonisingly over the bar.

The last chance of the game came deep in injury time with all of Audioslavia's eleven men in their third of the field and every member of Starblaydia's team - even goalkeeper Rodriguez Da Silva - up front for a free-kick, to be taken by J.J. Stark from the right hand side of the penalty area. The cross was whipped in at lightening speed. Da Siliva did manage to get a touch but only sent the ball on its way to Rastian Salaam who was speeding in at the far side. Salaam met the ball at full pelt on the corner of the six yard box with the 'slavian defence ball-watching. His shot went past Fenwick before he could move, but rattled the bottom bar instead of the net, bounced down a couple of feet on the wrong side of the line and catapulted back away to roll out for the throw-in, giving the referee enough cause for blowing the final whistle and preventing millions of Audioslavians from suffering any more heart-attacks.

Code: Select all

FINAL SCORE
Audioslavia 2 - 1 Starblaydia
Bracken 42        Ol-wairain 76
Ryder   61

The match would go on to end with Starblaydia winning by four goals to nil thanks to Lena Kochanska grabbing a second goal. Some said it was a great team performance, others her natural talent, others claimed it was the cyan boots, more still pointed to the fact that Audioslavia had played like utter crap.

Sue Dysos layed in her bed in her unkempt Kjeligsted apartment. The television was switched off - it had been switched off since the third Starblaydian goal rippled the back of the Audioslavian net. Hammered by the Purple Peril. Il Viola-Vile.

It isn't like the sides hate each other. One doubts that even Starblaydians remember that their first match in World Cup history was a loss to Audioslavia - the Audioslavians certainly don't remember unless one explicitly searches for previous encounters between the two teams, it's just that... there's never been any animosity between the teams.

That, as the papers have suggested recently, with allegations of matchfixing on the 'may as well be Audioslavian' isle of Cedrus, in Starblaydia, might not exactly be a good thing. Most papers, including this one, are still waiting for any real facts to come out before they implicate either football association in wrongdoing. For now, the only suspicious aspect of this Audioslavia - Starblaydia final is the fact that it is being held between Audioslavia and Starblaydia.

Some onlookers may well be thinking - how on earth do both these sides do it? Audioslavians would be first to assert that neither of the claret and green sides that reached those four finals were a truly brilliant side, and while Starblaydians may argue that the World Cup 25-28 side was the greatest in history, they're wrong. It was long suspected that Audioslavia reached major finals, and Starblaydia won them, because there was something unquantifiable about them. People have proposed theories that its the branding, the distinctive festive pinstripes of the Audioslavians, the over-sexed 18th century baroque violinists's bedsheets-coloured purple and gold of Starblaydia. Others point to the unlikely range of surnames and ethnicities in the sides, and argue for wider gene pools as a mark of success, athleticism and intelligence, but that theory can be demolished in the four seconds it takes to talk to the average Starblaydian, or look at the average Audioslavian.

The idea that these sides don't have anything special about them, but are merely fated to play out their roles for eternity - vain imperialists /scruffy arseholes - is a difficult one to make, but even harder to answer. Should Audioslavia win, that little theory would die quicker than you can say 'Valrauncion is a cyan turncoat', but should Starblaydia win out this coming night, they may take with them not only the soul of an Audioslavia side many believe to be better on paper, but the very notion of free-will itself.

The likely teams in full (although as we're beginning to realise, it might not even matter)

[Aguazul]

It wouldn't be much longer before the tournament was finished at last, and Eliana could go back to being just another Aguazuleña. And maybe, she could help make that something to be proud of.

"How do you do it?" she asked.

"Do what?"

"Elections. Democracy. You know, all of that."

"Well," the incoming vice president paused, scrawling on another clipboard, "there tends to be some sort of counting votes process involved. Depending on how convoluted things get, there might even be these instant runoffs or what have you."

Eliana rolled her eyes. "So I've heard."

"You're the one that has practice leading...well...some kind of a country, anyway. It's the rest of Aguazul that should be curious."

"I think they probably will be. Once everything sinks in."

"It's like football," the other woman called over.

"What?" asked Eliana. "Democracy is?"

"Yeah, kind of."

"A generally good idea, that has lots of adherents, some a little weirder than others, that can sometimes seem unfair or become stressful but is by and large a decent way to bring countries together after all? Sounds about right."

"I may have lost something in translation, but...that wasn't exactly what I was going for."

"Oh? Do tell."

"Just, in terms of getting used to something new. Sometimes all you need is a bandwagon coming out of nowhere, that takes everyone by surprise. Sometimes...it takes a lifetime."

Eliana nodded slowly. "Some places have it built in, ready to appreciate it at all levels, the others...well. Maybe we'll get lucky. And wouldn't Lopez be pleased with that."

"Huh?"

"Oh, nothing important. He respected closely knit teams, not always pulled from a big competitive league but who knew each other well enough to succeed."

She paused, translating that to the man beside her; Eliana's English was good enough for her to catch the gist of his reply, but she waited for the relay back. "Just having a l...professional teams isn't always enough. Flukes happen."

Eliana nodded. "That's what he never saw. That we're not set in stone, that leagues can grow and shrink and grow again. And that even we, Aguazul, would have players who fear and sing and trust each other. Things flow both ways; perhaps you took after us, perhaps we took after you."

The new vice president handed the clipboard off to the others, who took it hand in hand. "We become more than we thought possible, once we learn from each other."

But never say that we were just some ending to some story,
The heroes in their places who could nothing but amaze.
We've heard it all before, the talk of blazes and of glory,
But we know who we are, in the end; we know this was just another blaze.

Playoff

[Starblaydia]

The Starblaydi back pages were nothing but World Cup Final, while the front pages were nothing but the funeral of Curzon Starblayde.

There were two things that linked the front and back pages. The first was the overwhelming sense of nationalism. One as a product of joyous success, the other a product of national tragedy. While Audioslavia will be wearing yellow armbands for Ava Gillespie, Starblaydia would be wearing black armbands for their Lord-Protector. The second factor was Julius Starblayde. He was the SFA President for the back pages, and the brother of the Lord-Protector on the front pages, the sole remaining Starblayde. The last of his line.

And also the next Lord-Protector, if the rumours were to be believed.

It was the death of Lexus Starblayde, in a rarely-mentioned suicide, where Julius came to national attention outside of football. The public saw his emotions and shared them, and the loved him for it. Now the two aspects were being merged together and Julius was the most famous name in the land, the most prominent, the most successful in his field, the most loved and tthe most similar to his dearly-departed brother. There could, really, be no other choice.

So would the World Cup 63 Final be his last match in charge of the SFA? That would be down to the Sjarondai, Starblaydia's parliament. In years gone by it was nothing more than a front for the Lord-Protector but even now the Honourable Representatives who made up the Sjarondai would do nothing to rock the Praetoran boat. They would vote with the will of the people, for sure, and the cult of personality would remain around a Starblayde who had the potential to be even more loved than his father.

But, right now, this was a time for football. It, more than anything else, was Starblaydia's heartbeat. More than the Lord-Protector, more than their military might or creative expression, more than their cultural dominance and world leading environmentalism. Football was the reason for Starblaydia. So when these decisions are made, the funeral was put back to two days after the World Cup Final.

Depending on the result, the funeral procession itself would either be a soulless dirge or a joyous wake; the national mood was to be set.

History in the Making
Starblaydia's Sixth or Audioslavia's First

Starblaydia's hopes rest on Lena Kochanska's shoulders

Nearly two hundred years ago, Starblaydia's first manager, Jean-Paul Georges-Ringeaux, said that the KPB rankings were always having to catch up with how good Starblaydia actually were. Little has changed, it seems, as how else would a nation ranked in the mid-thirties, expected to maybe even not qualify for the World Cup, make it all the way to the Final without playing the sort of dreary, defensive, dishwater dullness that Audioslavia come up with every tournament?

Starblaydia have made it to this Final, perhaps their most unexpected of the seven they've been to, on the back of a generally solid defence, peppered with a midfield combining talent and workhorses, mixed in with a strike force that, while not breaking any scoring records, knows how to put the ball in the back of the net at the right time. Yes, there is a world class striker leading them and, yes, there is a Di Bradini in there somewhere but, no, this is not a Starblaydi team for the ages. They will not likely ring out as the greatest players we've ever had, immortalised in statues from Cedrus to Foxchester and everywhere in between.

"By far the greatest collection of fairly-talented top-level players who happen to gel really well and perform above expectations," is not the chant sung from the stands over the last few months. Starblaydi fans have appeared to been relying on the old favourites. "Away in Krytenia", "Ooh-Aah Kochanska", "There's only several Di Bradinis", the Love/Hate Marmitinho song and the Hessenthaler Swimming Pool song have all been registering in recent weeks.

Starblaydia's lack of - how can we put it - creativity is not confined to their fans, or even the media. On the field Jeremy Kintz has stuck with the tried and tested 4-4-2 Diamond that has been beloved of Starblaydi managers for nearly two centuries. The opposition have seen it all before and they know Starblaydia's use of it inside out. Yet it's still producing results good enough to knock out the likes of The Holy Empire and Valanora on the way to the Final. There are plenty of new kit-makers on the scene today, but ediraf's Generation Four still looks as clean and crisp as it did when it rolled out decades ago. Even the journalists have stuck to stock phrases and cliches (more than usual, in some cases) to get their reports out to a fairly disinterested public.

Can Juan Torres lift the World Cup on Sunday night?
And didn't he used to be a lot less... Stupid Sexy Torres?

Slowly but surely, the Starblaydi public's imagination has caught on. Across all aspects of the football-watching public, World Cup Fever has steadily gripped the nation. From the types who claim to have watched Simeone Di Bradini in his prime (despite them being well under 150 years old) and wishing we had a good-old 'ard man like 'Iban the Terrible' Francisco Ibanez, to those who wonder what this twenty-two beings chasing a synthetic pig's bladder is all about, the nation will be watching the Final.

They all want to see Lena Kochanska putting her name in history as only the four hundred and sixth striker in history to claim a World Cup Final match hat-trick, they all want to see Sergio Di Bradini and wonder how many 'great-greats' are in between him and his famous ancestor. They want to look at Frederico Blassii and decide who his real father is, with so little resemblance in manner and bearing between the full-back and his SFA Vice-President father. They all want Starblaydia to win, and become the first ever six-time World Champions, regaining their crown as the greatest nation ever to have played the game.

History is waiting to be made. Streaks are to be extended or smashed, and the grandest prize on the planet is ready to have another name engraved upon it.

The time for talking is over.

At the Cednia Beach Center, with a hundred thousand fans in attendance and trillions of people watching around the world, now is the time for deeds.

[The Babbage Islands]

Captain Donald Robert Wild, OB, BCG (Ret.)

For several days now the procession has come to a hospital in Aguazul. A hive of Bumblebees led by FC Torshavn clubmate Stefan Gill have virtually stood vigil over fallen captain Ava Gillespie. It's been a 24/7 effort interrupted only by the needs of the medical team.

Cathy Trillium, now officially retired, made the trip. Torshavn's owners have also come to her side, setting aside their busy deal-making to pay tribute to a fellow Bumblebee. All of the partners in Consorcio de Abelhas, owners of six football clubs in as many nations, are names out of Babbage football legend.

Opponents have responded as well. An Audioslavian representative presented her with the commemorative band of Bumblebee yellow his side will don in the final. Several Bear-Belles from the Golden Honeycomb rivalry have stopped in to lend support. There's a bedside photo of Urra SunBlesséd with Gillespie and Babbage manager Arna-Maggra o Wirrenne that has flashed round the world.

In the midst of it all a game got played. Even during the match there was a Bumblebee at her side, as a newly-retired Kaitlyn Miller sat with her colleague and friend while Coll Brodie wore the armband and Maria Carrizales denied everything United Gordonopia could generate. One magic kick from winger Emily Howell settled the affair, and for the fifth time the Babbage squad would accept third-place honours at a World Cup.

And shortly thereafter three visitors arrived, including the most important of all. A handsome couple in their thirties walked through the door only to be rounded by a streak of four-year-old. "Aunt Ava!" she cried, and for a short time there were no words.